IECE. 


• 


HE  AUTHOR  OF 


'My  DAUGHTER  ELINOR!' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OE  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

California  State  Library 


t  a 

r.  !FS 

t,  k 

si  ._...T——— *  L-er- 

8c___,^-_-~^>r^OTi  TO  reTnrjranyTTobk  taken  from  the  Li 
brary,  he  shall  forfeit  and  pay  to  the  Librarian,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Library,  three  times  the  value  thereof; 
and  before  the  Controller  shall  issue  his  warrant  in  favor 
of  any  member  or  officer  of  the  Legislature,  or  of  this 
State,  for  his  per  diem,  allowance  or  salary,  he  shall  be 
satisfied  that  such  member  or  officer  has  returned  all 
books  taken  out  of  the  Library  by  him,  and  has  settled 
all  accounts  for  injuring  such  books  or  otherwise. 

SKC.  15.  Books  may  be  taken  from  the  Library  by  the 
members  of  the  Legislature  and  its  oflicers  during  the 
session  of  the  same,  and  at  any  time  by  the  Governor  and 
the  officers  of  the  Executive  Department  of  this  State, 
who  are  required  to  keep  their  offices  at  the  seat  of 
govenneut,  the  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  At 
torney-General  and  the  Trustees  of  the  Library 


Novels  are  sweets.  All  people  with  healthy  literary  appetites  love  them— almost  all  women ;  a  vast  number 
of  clever,  hard-headed  men.  Judges,  bishops,  chancellors,  mathematicians,  are  notorious  novel  readers,  as 
well  as  young  boys  and  sweet  girls,  and  their  kind,  tender  mothers.— W.  M.  TIIACKEBAY,  in  Roundabout  Papery. 


SELECT   NOVELS. 


Harper's  Select  Library  of  Fiction  rarely  includes  a  work  which  has  not  a  decided  charm,  either  from  the 
clearness  of  the  story,  the  significance  of  the  theme,  or  the  charm  of  the  execution ;  so  that  on  setting  out 
upon  a  journey,  or  providing  for  the  recreation  of  a  solitary  evening,  one  is  wise  and  safe  in  procuring  the 
later  numbers  of  this  attractive  series. — Boston  Transcript. 


1. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6- 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 

16. 
17. 

18. 
19. 
20. 
21. 
22. 


20. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
30. 
31. 
32. 
33. 
34. 
35. 
36. 
37. 
38. 
39. 
40. 
41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 
45. 
46. 
47. 
48. 
49. 
50. 
51. 
52. 


Pelham.  By  Bulwer $  75 

The  Disowned.  By  Bulwer 75 

Devereux.  .By Bulwer 50 

Paul  .Clifford.  By  Bulwer 50 

Eugene  Aram.  By  Bulwer 50 

The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  By  Bulwer  50 

The  Czarina.  By  Mrs.  Hofl and 50 

Rienzi.  By  Bulwer 75 

Self-Devotion.  By  Miss  Campbell 50 

The  Nabob  at  Home 50 

Ernest  Maltravers.  By  Bulwer 50 

Alice ;  or,  The  Mysteries.  By  Bulwer  50 

The  Last  of  the  Barons.  By  Bulwer.. 1  00 

Forest  Days.  By  James 50 

Adam  Brown,  the  Merchant.  By  H. 

Smith 50 

Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.  By  Bulwer....  25 

The  Home.  By  Miss  Bremer 50 

The  Lost  Ship.  By  Captain  Neale 75 

The  False  Heir.  By  James 50 

The  Neighbors.  By  Miss  Bremer 50 

Nina.  By  Miss  Bremer 50 

The  President's  Daughters.  By  Miss 

Bremer 25 

The  Banker's  Wife.  By  Mrs.  Gore....  50 

The  Birthright.  By  Mrs.  Gore .,...  25 

New  Sketches  of  Every-day  Life.  By 

Miss  Bremer 50 

Arabella  Stuart.  By  James 50 

The  Grumbler.  By  Miss  Pickering. ...  50 

The  Unloved  One.  By  Mrs.  Hofland.  50 

Jack  of  the  Mill.  By  William  Howitt.  25 

The  Heretic.  By  Lajetchnikoff. 50 

The  Jew.  By  Spindler 75 

Arthur.  BySue 75 

Chatsworth.  By  Ward 50 

The  Prairie  Bird.  By  C.  A.  Murray.  1  00 

Amy  Herbert.  ByMissSewell 50 

Rose  d'Albret.  By  James 50 

The  Triumphs  of  Time.  By  Mrs.  Marsh  75 

The  H Family.  By  Miss  Bremer  50 

The  Grandfather.  By  Miss  Pickering.  60 

Arrah  Neil.  By  James 50 

The  Jilt 50 

Tales  from  the  German 50 

Arthur  Arundel.  By  H.  Smith 50 

Agincourt.  By  James 50 

The  Regent's  Daughter 50 

The  Maid  of  Honor 50 

Safia.  By  De  Beauvoir 50 

Look  to  the  End.  By  Mrs.  Ellis 50 

The  Improvisatore.  By  Andersen 60 

The  Gambler's  Wife.  By  Mrs.  Grey..  50 

Veronica.  By  Zschokke 50 

Zoe.  By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 


53.  Wyoming $  50 

54.  DeRohan.    BySue 50 

55.  Self.    By  the  Author  of  "  Cecil" 75 

56.  The  Smuggler.     By  James 75 

57.  The  Breach  of  Promise.-. 50 

58.  Parsonage  of  Mora.    By  Miss  Bremer  25 

59.  A  Chance  Medley.    By  T.  C.  Grattan  50 

60.  The  White  Slave 1  00 

61.  The  Bosom  Friend.     By  Mrs.  Grey..  50 

62.  Amaury.     By  Dumas 50 

63.  The  Author's  Daughter.     By  Mary 

Howitt 25 

64.  Only  a  Fiddler !  &c.    By  Andersen....  50 

65.  The  Whiteboy.     By  Mrs.  Hall 50 

66.  The  Foster-Brother.    Edited  by  Leigh 

Hunt 50 

67.  Love  and  Mesmerism.     By  H.  Smith.  75 

68.  Ascanio.     By  Dumas 75 

69.  Lady   of   Milan.       Edited    by  Mrs. 

Thomson 75 

70.  The  Citizen  of  Prague 1  00 

71.  The  Royal  Favorite.     By  Mrs.  Gore.  50 

72.  The  Queen  of  Denmark.  By  Mrs.  Gore  50 

73.  The  Elves,  &c.     ByTieck 50 

74,75.  The  Step-Mother.     By  James 1  25 

76.  Jessie's  Flirtations 50 

77.  Chevalier  d'Harmental.     By  Dumas.  50 

78.  Peers  and  Parvenus.     By  Mrs.  Gore.  50 

79.  The  Commander  of  Malta.    By  Sue. .  50 

80.  The  Female  Minister 50 

81.  Emilia  Wyndham.     By  Mrs.  Marsh.  75 

82.  The  Bush-Ranger.     By  Charles  Row- 

croft 50 

83.  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 25 

84.  Genevieve.     ByLamartine 25 

85.  Livonian  Tales 25 

86.  Lettice  Arnold.     By  Ms.  Marsh 25 

87.  Father  Darcy.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

88.  Leontine.     By  Mrs.  Maberly 50 

89.  Heidelberg.     By  James 50 

90.  Lucretia.     By  Bulwer 75 

91.  Beauchamp.     By  James 75 

92,94.  Fortescue.    ByKnowles 1  00 

93.  Daniel Dennison,&c.  By  Mrs.  Hofland  50 

95.  Cinq-Mars.     ByDeVigny 50 

96.  Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  75 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein.     By  James  50 

98.  Marriage.     By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 60 

99.  Roland  Cashel.     By  Lever. I  25 

100.  Martins  of  Cro' Martin.     By  Lever.. .1  25 

101.  Russell.     ByJames 50 

102.  A  Simple  Story.    By  Mrs.  Inchbald..  50 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.    By  Mrs.  Marsh...  50 

104.  Alamance J 

lO.j.  Margaret  Graham.     ByJames 25 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


106.  The  Wayside  Cross.  ByE.H.Milman.$  25 

107.  The  Convict.     By  James 50 

108.  Midsummer  Eve.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  50 

109.  Jane  Eyre.     ByCurrerBell 75 

110.  The  Last  of  the  Fairies.     By  James..  25 

111.  Sir  Theodore  Broughton.     By  James  50 

112.  Self-Control.     By  Mary  Brunton 75 

113.  114.  Harold.     By  Bulwer 1  00 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.  ByMissBremer  60 

116.  Gowrie.     By  James 50 

117.  A  Whim  and  its  Consequences.     By 

James 50 

118.  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes. 

ByG.  H.  Lewes 75 

119.  The  Discipline  of  Life 50 

120.  Thirty  Years  Since.     By  James 75 

121.  Mary  Barton.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

122.  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.     By 

Thackeray.. 25 

123.  The  Forgery.     By  James 60 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.    By  Miss  Breraer  25 

125.  126.  The  Caxtons.     By  Bulwer 75 

127.  Mordaunt  Hall.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 60 

129.  The  Woodman.    By  James 75 

130.  The  Green  Hand.     A  "  Short  Yam  "  75 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.    By  Meinhold  I  00 

132.  Shirley.     By  Currer  Bell 100 

133.  TheOgilvies 50 

134.  Constance  Lyndsay.    ByG.  C.  H 50 

135.  Sir  Edward  Graham.  By  Miss  Sinclair.  1  00 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.  By  Miss  Wilkinson.  50 

137.  The  Wilmingtons.     By  Mrs.  Marsh..  50 

138.  Ned  Allen.    By  D.  Hannay 50 

139.  Night  and  Morning.     By  Bulwer 75 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 75 

141.  Antonina.    By  Wilkie  Collins 50 

142.  Zanoni.     By  Bulwer 50 

143.  Reginald  Hastings.     By  Warburton..  50 

144.  Pride  and  Irresolution 50 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.     By  James 50 

146.  Julia  Howard.    By  Mrs.  Martin  Bell.  50 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.     Edited  by  Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

148.  Petticoat  Government.   By  Mrs.  Trol- 

lope 50 

149.  The  Luttrells.     By  F.Williams 50 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  R.  N.  By  Hannay  50 

151.  Olive.  By  the  Author  of  "TheOgilvies"  50 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.     By  James 50 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.     By  Mrs.  Marsh.  50 

154.  The  Commissioner.     By  James 1  00 

155.  The  Wife's  Sister.     By  Mrs.  Hubback  50 

156.  The  Gold  Worshipers 50 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night.    By  Fnllom.  50 

158.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.    By  Hon.  Caro 

line  Norton 50 

159.  Arthur  Conway.  By  Capt.E.H.Milman  50 

160.  The  Fate.     By  James .- 50 

161.  The  Lady  and  the  Priest.     By  Mrs. 

Maberly 50 

162.  Aims  and  Obstacles.     By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor's  Ward 50 

164.  Florence  Sackville.    By  Mrs.  Burbury  75 

165.  Ravenscliffe.     By  Mrs".  Marsh 50 

166.  Maurice  Tiernny.     By  Lever 1  00 

167.  The  Head  of  the  Familv.     By  Miss 

Mulock .". 75 

168.  Darien.     By  Warburton 50 

169.  Falkenburg 75 

170.  TheDaltons.     Bv  Lever 1  50 


171.  Ivar;  or,  The  Skjuts-Boy.     By  Miss 

Carlen " $  50 

172.  Pequinillo.     By  James 50 

173.  Anna  Hammer.     ByTemme 50 

174.  A  Life  of  Vicissitudes.     By  James...  50 

175.  Henry  Esmond.     By  Thackeray 50 

176.  177.  My  Novel.     By  Bulwer 1  50 

178.  Katie  Stewart 25 

179.  Castle  Avon.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

180.  Agnes  Sorel.     By  James 50 

181.  Agatha's  Husband.    By  the  Author  of 

"Olive" 50 

182.  Villette.     ByCurrerBell 75 

183.  Lover's  Stratagem.     By  Miss  Carlen.  50 

184.  Clouded    Happiness.      By  Countess 

D'Orsay 50 

185.  Charles  Anchester.    A  Memorial 75 

186.  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 50 

187.  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever....!  25 

188.  Sir  Jasper  Carew.     By  Lever 75 

189.  Quiet  Heart 25 

190.  Aubrey.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

191.  Ticonderoga.     By  James 50 

192.  Hard  Times.     By  Dickens 50 

193.  The  Young  Husband.     By  Mrs.  Grey  50 

194.  The  Mother's  Recompense.    By  Grace 

Aguilar 75 

195.  Avillion,  &c.     By  Miss  Mulock 1  25 

196.  North  and  South.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell.  50 

197.  Country  Neighborhood.   By  Miss  Du' 

puy 50 

198.  Constance  Herbert.  ByMissJewsbury.  50 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Haughton.     By  Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

200.  The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 50 

201.  John   Halifax.      By  the  Author  of 

"Olive,"  &c 75 

202.  Evelyn  Marston.     By  Mrs.  Marsh....  50 

203.  Fortunes  of  Glencore.     By  Lever 50 

204.  Leonora  d'Orco.     By  James 50 

205.  Nothing  New.     By  Miss  Mulock 50 

206.  TheRoseof  Ashurst.   By  Mrs.  Marsh  50 

207.  The  Athelings.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant....  75 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 75 

209.  My  Lady  Ludlow.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell.  25 

210.  211.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.     By  Lever...  50 

212.  A  Life  for  a  Life.     By  Miss"  Mulock..  50 

213.  Sword  and  Gown.    By  Geo.  Lawrence  25 

214.  Misrepresentation.  ByAnnaH.Drury.l  OC 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.  ByGeorgeEliot  75 

216.  One  of  Them.     By  Lever 75 

217.  A  Day's  Ride.     By  Lever 50 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.     By  Wills 50 

219.  A  Strange  Story 1  00 

220.  Brown,  Jones,  and   Robinson.      By 

Trollope GO 

221.  Abel  Drake's  Wife.  By  John  Saunders  75 

222.  Olive  Blake's  Good  Work.     ByJ.  C. 

Jeaffreson 75 

223.  The  Professor's  Lady 25 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.     By  Miss  Mulock  50 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.     By  M.  E.  Braddon..  75 

226.  Barrington.     By  Lever 75 

227.  Sylvia's  Lovers.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell....  75 

228.  A  First  Friendship 50 

229.  A  Dark  Night's  Work.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell  50 

230.  Countess  Gisela.     ByE.'Marlitt 25 

231.  St.  Olave's.     By  Eliza  Tabor 75 

232.  A  Point  of  Honor 50 

233.  Live  it  Down.     By  Jeaffreson 1  00 

234.  Martin  Pole.     By'Saunders 50 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


PBIOB 

235.  Mary  Lyndsay.     By  Lady  Ponsonby.  $  50 

236.  Eleanor's  Victory.   J3yM.  E.  Braddon  75 

237.  Rachel  Kay.     By  Trollope 50 

238.  John  Marchmout's  Legacy.     By  M. 

E.  Braddon 75 

239.  Annie    Warieigh's     Fortunes.      By 

Holme  Lee 75 

240.  The  Wife's  Evidence.     By  Wills 50 

241.  Barbara's  History.      By  Amelia  B. 

Edwards 75 

242.  Cousin  Phillis 25 

243.  What  Will  He  Do  With  It?  ByBulwer.l  50 

244.  The  Ladder  of  Life.     By  Amelia  B. 

Edwards 50 

245.  Denis  Duval.     By  Thackeray 50 

246.  Maurice  Dering.     By  Geo.  Lawrence  50 

247.  Margaret  Denzil's  History 75 

248.  Quite  Alone.  By  George  Augustus  Sala  75 

249.  Mattie:  a  Stray 75 

250.  My  Brother's  Wife.     By  Amelia  B. 

Edwards 50 

251.  Uncle  Silas.     ByJ.  S.  LeFanu 75 

252.  Lovel  the  Widower.     By  Thackeray..  25 

253.  Miss  Mackenzie.  ByAnthonyTrollope  50 

254.  On  Guard.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

255.  Theo  Leigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

256.  Denis  Doone.     By  Annie  Thomas. ...  50 

257.  Belial 50 

258.  Carry's  Confession 75 

259.  Miss  Carew.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards.  50 

260.  Hand  and  Glove".     By  Amelia  B.  Ed 

wards 50 

261.  GuyDeverell.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu....  50 

262.  Half  a  Million  of  Money.     By  Amelia 

B.  Edwards 75 

263.  The  Belton  Estate.    By  A.  Trollope...  50 
261.  Agnes.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

265.  Walter  Goring.     By  Annie  Thomas..  75 

266.  Maxwell Drewitt.  ByMrs.J.H.Kiddell  75 

267.  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.  By  Victor  Hugo  75 

268.  Miss  Marjoribanks.  By  Mrs. Oliphant.  50 

269.  True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin. 

By  James  Greenwood 50 

270.  Gilbert  Rugge.   By  the  Author  of  "A 

First  Friendship" 1  00 

271.  Sans  Merci.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

272.  Phemie  Keller.  By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell  50 

273.  Land  at  Last.     By  Edmund  Yates. ...  50 

274.  Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.  By  Geo.  Eliot.  75 

275.  Bound  to  the  Wheel.  By  John  Saunders  75 

276.  All  in  the  Dark.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu.  50 

277.  Kissing  the  Rod.     By  Edmund  Yates  75 

278.  The  Race  for  Wealth.    By  Mrs.  J.  H. 

Riddell 75 

279.  Lizzie  Lor  ton  of  Greyrigg.     By  Mrs. 

Linton 75 

280.  The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son.    By 

C.  Clarke 50 

281.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke.  By  Chas.  Lever  50 

282.  Madonna  Mary.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant  .  50 

283.  Cradock  Nowell.  By  RD.Blackmore.  75 
.  281.  Bernthal.     From  the  German  of  L. 

Mnhlbach 50 

285.  Rachel's  Secret 75 

236.  The  Claverings.  ByAnthonyTrollope.  50 
L';-7.  The  Village  on  the  Cliff.  By  Miss 

Thackeray 25 

288.  Played  Out.     By  Annie  Thomas 75 

289.  Black  Sheep.     By  Edmund  Yates f>0 

290.  Sowing  the  Wind.  By  E.Lynn  Linton.  50 
2;U.  Nora  and  Archibald  Lee 50 


292.  Raymond's  Heroine $  50 

293.  Mr.Wynyard'sWard.   By  Holme  Lee.  50 

294.  Alec  Forbes.     By  George  Macdonald  75 

295.  No  Man's  Friend.  By  F.W.Robinson.  75 

296.  Called  to  Account.    By  Annie  Thomas  50 

297.  Caste .' 50 

298.  The  Curate's  Discipline.  By  Mrs.Eiloart  50 

299.  Circe.     By  Babington  White 50 

300.  The  Tenants  of  Malory.    By  J.  S.  Le 

Fanu 50 

301.  Carl  von's  Year.     By  James  Payn 25 

302.  The  Waterdale  Neighbors 50 

303.  Mabel's  Progress 50 

304.  Guild  Court.     By  Geo.  Macdonald...  50 

305.  The  Brothers'  Bet.     By  Miss  Carlen.  25 

306.  Playing  for  High  Stakes.     By  Annie 

Thomas.     Illustrated 25 

307.  Margaret's  Engagement 50 

308.  One  of  the  Family.     By  James  Payn.  25 

309.  Five  Hundred  Pounds  Reward.     By 

a  Barrister 50 

310.  Brownlows.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 38 

311.  Charlotte's    Inheritance.      Sequel    to 

"Birds  of  Prey."    By  Miss  Braddon  50 

312.  Jeanie's  Quiet  Life.    By  Eliza  Tabor.  50 

313.  Poor  Humanity.    ByF.  W.  Robinson  50 

314.  Brakespeare.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

315.  A  Lost  Name.     ByJ.  S.  Le  Fanu....  50 

316.  Love  or  Marriage?    By  W.  Black....  50 

317.  Dead -Sea  Fruit.     By  Miss  Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

318.  The  Dower  House.  By  Annie  Thomas  50 

319.  The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly.  By 

Lever 50 

320.  Mildred.     By  Georgiana  M.  Craik....  50 

321.  Nature's  Nobleman.     By  the  Author 

of  "Rachel's  Secret" 50 

322.  Kathleen.     By  the  Author  of  "Ray 

mond's  Heroine" 50 

323.  ThatBoyofNorcott's.  By  Chas.  Lever  25 

324.  In  Silk  Attire.     By  W.  Black 50 

325.  Hetty.     By  Henry  Kingsley  ...,iv.....  25 

326.  False  Colors.     Bv  Annie  Thomas' 50 

327.  Meta's  Faith.    By  Eliza  Tabor 50 

328.  Found  Dead.     By  James  Payn 50 

329.  Wrecked  in  Port.     By  Edmund  Yates  50 

330.  The  Minister's  Wife.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant  75 

331.  A  Beggar  on  Horseback.  By  Jas.  Payn  35 

332.  Kitty.     By  M.  Betham  Edwards 50 

333.  Only  Herself.     By  Annie  Thomas....  50 

334.  Hirell.     By  John  Saunders 50 

335.  Under  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde 50 

336.  So  Runs  the  World  Away."  By  Mrs. 

A.  C.  Steele 50 

337.  Baffled.     By  Julia  Goddard 75 

338.  Beneath  the  Wheels 50 

339.  Stern  Necessity.     By  F.  W.  Robinson  50 

340.  Gwendoline's  Harvest.  By  JamesPayn  25 

341.  Kilmeny.     By  William  Black 50 

342.  John:  A  Love  Story.  ByMrs.Oliphant  50 

343.  True  to  Herself.    By  F.  W.  Robinson  50 

344.  Veronica.     By  the  Author  of  "Ma 

bel's  Progress  " 50 

345.  A  Dangerous  Guest.     By  the  Author 

of  "Gilbert  Rugge" 50 

346.  Estelle  Russell 75 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.     1'y  the  Author 

of  "Raymond's  Heroine'1 50 

348.  Which  is  the  Heroine? 50 

349.  The  Vivian  Romance.     By  Mortimer 

Collins CO 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


350.  In  Duty  Bound.     Illustrated $50 

35 1 .  The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers. 

By  A.  Trollope 75 

352.  From  Thistles  —  Grapes  ?     By  Mrs. 

Eiloart 50 

353.  A  Siren.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 50 

354.  Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite. 

By  Anthony  Trollope.    Illustrated...  50 

355.  Earl's  Dene.     By  It.  K.  Francillon....  50 
35C.  Daisy  Nichol.     By  Lady  Hardy 50 

357.  Bred  in  the  Bone.     By  James  Payn..  60 

358.  Fenton's  Quest.     By  Miss  Braddon. 

Illustrated , 50 

359.  Monarch  of  Mincing  -  Lane.     By  W. 

Black.     Illustrated 50 

360.  A  Life's  Assize.  By  Mrs.  J.H.Riddell  50 

361.  Anteros.      By  the  Author  of  "Guy 

Livingstone" 50 

362.  Her  Lord  and  Master.    By  Mrs.  Ross 

Church 50 

363.  Won — Not  Wooed.     By  James  Payn  50 

364.  For  Lack  of  Gold.    By  Chas.  Gibbon  50 

365.  Anne  Furness 75 

366.  A  Daughter  of  Heth.     By  W.  Black.  50 

367.  Dumton  Abbey.     By  T.  A.  Trollope.  50 

368.  Joshua  Marvel.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon...  40 
3G9.  Lovelsof  Arden.    B"y  M.  E.  Braddon. 

Illustrated 75 

370.  Fair  to  See.     By  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart.  75 

371.  Cecil's  Tryst.     By  James  Payn 50 

372.  Patty.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid...  50 

373.  Maud  Mohan.     By  Annie  Thomas....  25 

374.  Grif.    By  B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

375.  A  Bridge  of  Glass.  By  F.W.Robinson  50 

376.  Albert  Lunel.     By  Lord  Brougham..  75 

377.  A  Good  Investment.    ByWm.  Flagg.  50 

378.  A  Golden  Sorrow.     By  Mrs.  Cashel 

Hoey 50 

379.  Ombra.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

380.  Hope  Deferred.     By  Eliza  F.  Pollard  50 

381.  TheMaidofSker.  By  R.D.Blackmore  75 

382.  For  the  King.     By  Charles  Gibbon...  50 

383.  A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Tales. 

ByF.  W.  Robinson 50 

384.  Dr."  Wninwright's  Patient.      By  Ed 

mund  Yates r>0 

385.  A  Passion  in  Tatters.  ByAnnieThomas  75 

386.  A  Woman's  Vengeance.  ByJas.  Payn.  50 

387.  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton. 

By  William  Black 75 

388.  To  the  Bitter  End.    By  Miss  Braddon.  75 

389.  Robin  Gray     By  Charles  Gibbon 50 

390.  Godolphin.     By  Bulwer 50 

391.  Leila.     By  Bulwer 50 

392.  Kenelm  Chillingly.     By  Lord  Lytton.  75 

393.  The  Hour  and  tlie  Man.     By  Harriet 

Martineau 50 

394.  Murphy's  Master.    By  James  Payn...  25 

395.  The  New  Magdalen.  BvWilkie  Collins.  50 

396.  " 'He  Cometh  Not,' "She  Said."     By 

Annie  Thomas 50 

397.  Innocent.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  Illustrated  75 

398.  Too  Soon.     By  Mrs.  Macquoid 50 


399.  Strangers    and    Pilgrims.      By  Miss 

Braddon $  75 

400.  A  Simpleton.     By  Charles  Reade 50 

401.  The  Two  Widows.   ByAnnieThomas  50 

402.  Joseph  the  Jew 50 

403.  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune.     By  F. 

W.  Robinson 50 

404.  A  Princess  of  Thule.     By  W.  Black.  75 

405.  Lottie  Darling.     By  J.  C.  Jeaffreson.  75 

406.  The  Blue  Ribbon.     By  Eliza  Tabor.  50 

407.  Harry  Heathcote  of  Gangoil.    By  An 

thony  Trollope  25 

408.  Publicans  and  Sinners.     By  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 75 

409.  Colonel  Dacre.  By  Author  of  "Caste"  50 

410.  Through  Fire  and  Water.     By  Fred 

erick  Talbot 25 

411.  Lady  Anna.      By  Anthony  Trollope.  50 

412.  Taken  at  the  Flood.  By  Miss  Braddon.  75 

413.  At  Her  Mercy.     By  James  Payn 50 

414.  Ninety-Three.     By  Victor  Hugo 25 

415.  For  Love  and  Life.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  75 

416.  Doctor  Thorne.  By  Anthony  Trollope.  75 

417.  The  Best  of  Husbands.    ByJas.Payn.  60 

418.  Sylvia's  Choice.  ByGeorgianaM.Craik  50 

419.  A  Sack  of  Gold.  By  Miss  V.W.Johnson  '() 

420.  Squire  Arden.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant. ...  75 

421.  Lorna  Doone.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore.  75 

422.  Treasure  Hunters.   By  Geo.  M.  Fenn.  40 

423.  Lost  for  Love.    By  Miss  Braddon....  75 

424.  Jack's  Sister.    By  Miss  Dora  Havers.  75 

425.  Aileen  Ferrers.  By  Susan  Morley 50 

426.  The  Love  that  Lived.  By  Mrs.  Eiloart.  50 

427.  In  Honor  Bound.   By  Charles  Gibbon.  50 

428.  Jessie  Trim.    By  B.  L.  Farjeon 50 

429.  Hagarene.     By  George  A.  Lawrence.  75 

430.  Old  Myddeltori's  Money.     By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay 50 

431.  At  the  Sign  of  the  Silver  Flagon.    By 

B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

432.  A   Strange  World.     By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 75 

433.  Hope  Meredith.     By  Eliza  Tabor 50 

434.  The   Maid    of    Killeena,   and    Other 

Stories.     By  William  Black 50 

435.  The  Blossoming  of  an  Aloe.     By  Mrs. 

Cashel  Hoey 50 

436.  Safely  Married.     By  the  Author  of 

"Caste" 50 

437.  The    Story    of  Valentine;    and   his 

Brother 75 

438.  Our  Detachment.  By  Katharine  King.  50 

439.  Love's  Victory.   By  B.  L.  Farjeon 25 

440.  Alice  Lorraine.  By  R.  D.  Blackmore.  75 

44 1 .  Walter's  Word.    By  James  Pavn 75 

442.  Playing  the  Mischief.     By  J/W.  De 

Forest 75 

443.  The  Lady  Superior.    By  Eliza  F.  Pol 

lard....." 50 

444.  Iseulte.     By  the  Author  of  "Vera," 

"Hotel  du  Petit  St.  Jean,"  &c 50 

445.  Eglantine.     By  Eliza  Tabor 50 

44G.  Ward  or  Wife?...,        25 


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BIARRITZ,  FRANCE,  May,  1875. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  QUARTIER  MONTMARTRE. 

A  CROOKED  old  man,  and  a  crooked  small 
boy,  who  looked  older  than  one  of  the  pa 
triarchs,  were  quarreling  fiercely  in  an  unintelli 
gible  patois.  So  far  as  could  be  judged  from 
their  gestures,  the  difference  of  opinion  had  arisen 
in  regard  to  the  carrying  of  their  joint  property, 
a  hand-organ  and  a  monkey,  each  preferring  the 
latter  for  his  burden. 

The  organ,  a  very  Methuselah  of  its  kind,  stood 
in  a  door-way;  the  monkey,  rather  more  time- 
worn  and  wicked  in  appearance  than  either  of 
his  owners,  had  perched  himself  on  its  top,  and 
munched  an  apple  covertly,  while  the  contest 
waxed  hotter,  evincing  a  high-bred  indifference 
as  to  which  of  the  combatants  had  the  honor  of 
his  society. 

An  ancient  clothes-woman,  a  peripatetic  pyra 
mid  of  rags,  crooned  a  sort  of  rhyme  in  a  bass 
voice  that  she  seemed  to  have  borrowed  from  a 
giant.  Dirty  little  children  squabbled  in  the 
gutter.  An  omnibus  toiled  up  the  hill,  having 
a  third  horse  attached  for  the  ascent,  and  the 
driver  and  two  other  men  belabored  the  unfort 
unate  beasts,  and  made  as  much  noise  as  a  troop 
of  hyenas.  Idlers  in  blouses  lounged  about  the 
entrance  of  the  cabaret  at  the  corner,  as  earnest 
in  discussion  as  if  the  fate  of  the  nation  depended 
on  their  efforts.  A  young  woman  in  doubtfully 
clean  finery  halted  with  her  right  foot  poised  on  a 
curb-stone,  awaiting  an  opportunity  to  cross  the 
street,  and  displaying  her  ankles  while  she  wait 
ed,  for  the  benefit  of  any  passers-by  who  might 
think  them  worth  regarding. 

It  was  a  street  in  the  heart  of  Paris,  but  a  re 
gion  despised  by  wandering  English  and  Ameri 
cans — far  up  in  the  Quartier  Montmartre,  where 
the  hill  was  most  precipitous,  and  the  trottoirs  so 
slippery  that  an  unwary  promenader  took  three 
steps  backward  to  one  in  advance,  apparently  in 
dulging  in  some  remarkable  kind  of  pirouette. 
The  tall  houses,  too,  looked  just  ready  to  slide 
down  the  descent,  and  seemed  frowning  darkly 
at  the  prospect  of  a  tumble. 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  lighted  up  the 


scene,  and  rendered  the  squalor  and  noise  more 
insupportable  than  usual.  The  fruit  and  vege 
table  venders  screamed  with  renewed  energy. 
The  hurry  and  animation  increased,  as  though 
every  body  had  a  host  of  things  to  accomplish 
before  the  night  arrived  ;  and  yet  no  one  did  any 
thing  but  shriek  and  dance  about  in  an  insane 
dervish  sort  of  fashion. 

At  one  the  windows  of  an  apartment  au  second 
in  the  largest  and  most  habitable-looking  dwell 
ing,  Fannie  St.  Simon  stood  and  surveyed  the 
scene,  and  gazed  away  through  the  distance  at  a 
pile  of  gorgeous-tinted  clouds,  wishing  drearily 
that  they  might  burst  into  a  fiery  storm,  and  com 
plete  the  ruin  attempted  by  the  Communards  a 
few  months  previous. 

She  made  a  very  pretty  picture,  framed  among 
the  dingy  draperies,  with  a  scarlet  shawl  thrown 
over  her  shoulders ;  for  October  had  come,  and 
the  evening  air  fell  chill  and  sharp.  But  her 
personal  appearance,  important  as  she  had  all 
her  life  been  in  the  habit  of  considering  it,  was  a 
matter  of  utter  indifference  just  now. 

The  light  faded  rapidly  out  of  the  west,  the 
noises  below  ceased  to  distract  her  attention. 
Fanny's  gaze  settled  upon  a  black  and  white  let 
tered  sign  near  the  comer,  which  marked  a  mont- 
de-piete,  and  her  face  grew  rather  sullen  as  she 
remembered  that  in  a  couple  of  days  she  must 
inevitably  make  acquaintance  with  the  mysteries 
of  its  interior. 

She  turned  from  the  window,  and  resumed  her 
contemplation  of  such  valuables  as  she  possessed. 
An  hour  or  two  before,  she  had  spread  the  trink 
ets  on  the  table,  to  decide  which  among  them 
should  be  first  offered  in  the  sacrifice  grown  im 
perative.  There  was  a  tolerable  store  of  jewel 
ry — articles  of  value,  too — but  they  would  bring 
little  enough  under  the  rigid  estimate  of  a  French 
pawnbroker.  She  turned  over  the  glittering 
baubles,  recalling  the  occasions  for  which  they 
had  been  purchased  or  presented,  till  the  mem 
ories  they  roused  brought  up  the  past  as  vividly 
as  if  she  were  reading  pages  from  an  old  diary, 
and  gave  her  a  twinge  of  pain,  philosophical  as 
she  was.  Suddenly  she  swept  the  whole  mass 
into  a  drawer,  locked  it,  went  back  to  the  case- 


10 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


ment,  and  sat  down  to  watch  the  twilight  gath 
er,  cold  and  gray,  as  her  own  life  at  this  moment 
appeared. 

Four  months  had  passed  since  any  news  from 
St.  Simon  had  reached  her,  and  she  knew  the 
man  well  enough  to  fear  that  he  never  meant  to 
write  or  come  back.  With  only  herself  to  pro 
vide  for,  she  might  have  regarded  the  future  com 
posedly,  menacing  as  it  looked.  But  there  was 
the  Tortoise  on  her  hands,  and  Fanny  said  to 
herself,  with  a  good-natured  smile,  that  a  Tor 
toise  was  a  somewhat  cumbrous  luxury  under  the 
circumstances. 

The  animal  in  question  was  St.  Simon's  wife. 
He  had  so  long  ago  given  her  this  appellation, 
that  Fanny  adopted  it  unconsciously,  though  she 
was  neither  unkind  nor  disrespectful  to  the  help 
less  woman.  But  the  Tortoise  was  an  incum- 
brance  at  present,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  Their 
money  had  been  gone  for  some  time,  and  now  old 
Antoinette  averred  that  the  neighboring  grocers, 
the  charcoal  dealers,  and  the  cross  laitiere  abso 
lutely  refused  a  longer  credit,  and  were  clamor 
ous  for  their  dues. 

Fanny  thought  of  the  days  when  she  had  dash 
ed  up  the  Champs-Elyse'es  in  a  duchess's  car 
riage  ;  when  she  had  danced  at  the  Tuileries 
balls ;  when  the  American  colony  had  delighted 
to  do  her  honor,  in  spite  of  the  whispers  concern 
ing  St.  Simon.  It  seemed  odd  enough  to  end 
like  this.  The  future  was  hidden  in  a  mist  so 
dark  and  impenetrable,  that  she  could  not  help 
calling  the  present  crisis  the  end,  though  she  rec 
ognized  her  folly  in  thus  naming  it. 

She  wondered  a  little  what  she  could  do  to 
keep  the  wolf  from  the  door.  She  had  varied 
accomplishments,  spoke  several  languages  admi 
rably,  possessed  a  marvelous  contralto  voice,  and 
was  a  fine  musician.  She  could  be  a  governess 
— Fanny  St.  Simon  a  governess !  She  thought 
of  the  necessary  testimonials,  and  laughed  at  the 
idea  of  going  meekly  among  her  country-people 
to  beg  such  vouchers  of  her  fitness  and  respecta 
bility.  The  grand  ladies  would  immediately  rec 
ollect  the  doubtful  stories  formerly  whispered 
about  St.  Simon,  and  give  her  the  cold  shoulder 
at  once,  though  they  had  chosen  to  ignore  the 
gossip  while  he  could  invite  them  to  eat  good 
dinners  in  the  company  of  titled  foreigners. 

Fanny  pictured  the  scene — her  own  efforts  at 
humility,  the  lofty  patronage  in  certain  quarters, 
the  delightful  insolence  in  others,  the  drawls,  the 
contemptuous  pity,  the  looking  as  if  it  required  a 
powerful  effort  of  memory  to  recall  her  to  mind. 
She  felt  rather  inclined  to  undertake  the  task 
without  delay,  just  for  the  amusement  of  the 
thing.  She  might  sing  at  a  cafe  chant ant ; 
really,  the  choice  seemed  to  lie  between  that  and 
teaching,  and  Fanny  thought  the  latter  would 
prove  decidedly  the  more  agreeable  occupation 
of  the  two.  She  remembered,  when  taken  to  the 
circus  as  a  child,  she  had  particularly  admired  a 


little  girl,  who  balanced  herself  on  a  huge  ball, 
and  rolled  it  down  an  inclined  plane  by  the  mo 
tion  of  her  feet.  The  phenomenon's  silk  stock 
ings  and  short,  spangled  petticoats  had  especially 
taken  her  fancy.  It  might  be  rather  amusing  to 
astonish  the  Parisians  by  some  such  performance, 
heralded  by  huge  yellow  posters  with  her  name 
on  them  in  immense  capitals.  She  did  not  think 
very  gravely;  even  with  the  probability  before 
her  of  having  no  dinner  the  next  day  but  one, 
she  did  not  grow  especially  serious  or  despondent. 
She  had  kept  any  knowledge  of  the  true  state  of 
affairs  from  the  Tortoise ;  and  as  long  as  she  had 
a  comfortable  easy-chair,  a  surreptitious  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  an  old  French  novel  to  fall  asleep  over, 
the  Tortoise  was  content.  But  if  these  necessi 
ties  failed,  the  Tortoise  would  wail  in  agony  and 
fright,  and  Fanny  hated  to  see  her  distressed ;  so 
some  resolution  on  her  own  part  could  not  much 
longer  be  deferred. 

Life  had  been  full  of  odd  changes  to  the  girl. 
They  had  always  led  a  very  Bohemian  existence. 
One  winter  St.  Simon  had  a  banker's  account, 
and  plenty  of  money ;  the  next  they  were  obliged 
to  economize  in  some  little  German  or  Italian 
town.  Therefore,  though  this  emergency  was 
new,  it  brought  none  of  the  terror  which  it  would 
have-  done  to  most  young  women  of  her  age. 

She  had  lived  in  Europe  since  she  was  a  little 
child.  St.  Simon  was  her  paternal  uncle,  and 
had  taken  her  and  her  twenty  thousand  dollars 
into  his  keeping  at  her  mother's  death.  Fanny 
was  aware  that  of  the  fortune  not  a  vestige  had 
existed  for  years ;  and  now  it  seemed  that  St. 
Simon  had  disappeared  quite  as  hopelessly.  She 
did  not  feel  angry ;  she  did  not  even  dislike  the 
man.  If  he  ever  got  money  again,  he  might  re 
turn,  if  he  remembered  it.  While  thinking  the 
matter  over  to-night,  she  did  not  trouble  herself 
with  a  single  harsh  thought  in  regard  to  him. 
Indeed,  she  regretted  his  society ;  for  he  could 
be  exceedingly  agreeable,  and,  when  things  went 
well,  was  as  pleasant  to  Fanny  as  if  there  had 
been  something  to  gain.  She  knew  that  he  was 
a  gambler,  and  a  bad  man  every  way  ;  but  she 
doubted  exceedingly  whether  other  men  were 
much  better.  At  least,  he  had  the  advantage 
of  possessing  charming  manners,  and  Fanny  con 
sidered  this  merit  ought  to  cover  a  multitude  of 
sins.  Life  had  not  given  her  a  lofty  opinion  of 
her  species ;  she  owned  slight  faith  in  any  thing 
here  or  hereafter,  though  the  latter  misfortune 
rose  more  from  lack  of  reflection  than  because 
her  opinions  were  deliberately  heretical  or  wick 
ed. 

St.  Simon  had  left  Fanny  and  the  Tortoise 
at  a  second-rate  German  spa,  where  they  had 
dragged  out  the  long  winter  while  Paris,  usually 
their  head-quarters,  was  besieged.  His  depart 
ure  had  been  very  sudden  ;  but  then  his  depart 
ures  always  were.  He  was  going  to  America. 
He  talked  a  great  deal,  though  vaguely,  about 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


11 


some  grand  scheme  which  was  to  insure  his  fort 
une  ;  but  Fanny  had  made  acquaintance  with 
too  many  schemes  equally  vague  and  grand,  to 
pay  much  attention.  He  should  only  be  absent 
a  few  weeks.  Fanny  must  take  the  Tortoise  to 
Paris.  His  friend,  Monsieur  Besson,  had  placed 
his  apartment  at  their  disposal.  Monsieur  Bes 
son  was  going  to  America  also.  He  gave  Fan 
ny  money,  and  promised  to  send  more  in  case 
he  should  be  delayed.  That  was  early  in  June. 
When  the  girl  brought  the  Tortoise  to  these 
dingy  lodgings,  the  ruins  of  the  palace  were  still 
smoking.  It  was  October  now,  and  no  tidings 
had  come.  There  was  no  one  in  America  to 
whom  she  could  write  for  news  of  her  uncle,  had 
she  felt  inclined.  She  wore  out  the  summer  as 
best  she  could,  taking  such  amusements  as  fell 
in  her  way — for  amuse  herself  she  must — and 
enjoyed  them  rather  more  than  she  had  done 
the  court  society  and  the  companionship  of  the 
American  colony  during  the  last  winter  of  the 
falling  empire. 

The  apartment  was  commodious,  albeit  some 
what  dingy ;  and  old  Antoinette,  who  had  been 
Fanny's  bonne,  and  possessed  a  genius  for  every 
thing — from  dressing  hair  to  cooking  a  dinner — 
nnd  was  the  best  and  most  obstinate  creature 
that  ever  came  out  of  Brittany,  made  them  very 
comfortable.  But  now  they  were  past  even  the 
possibility  of  credit;  and  this  morning,  when 
Antoinette  moaned  and  cursed  St.  Simon  in  the 
name  of  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar,  Fanny 
proposed  that  she  should  set  up  as  a  rope-dancer, 
and  Antoinette  tell  fortunes;  and  the  woman 
laughed  till  she  cried,  being  about  as  reckless 
and  incapable  of  serious  thought  as  her  young 
mistress. 

The  shadows  deepened  in  the  room,  the  win 
dow-curtains  looked  like  palls,  a  few  portraits 
stared  malevolently  at  her  through  the  gloom, 
and  the  place  grew  so  eerie  and  uncomfortable 
that  Fanny  began  to  think  of  forsaking  its  si 
lence  for  the  companionship  of  the  Tortoise,  who 
had  been  dozing  in  the  salon  ever  since  dinner. 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  Fanny  said, 
"Are  you  back  already?" 

She  supposed  it  was  Antoinette,  who  had  gone 
out  on  some  errand,  and  proposed  visiting  a 
neighbor  before  she  returned. 

"  'Already'  is  not  complimentary,"  replied  a 
laughing  voice.  "She  speaks  as  if  these  four 
months  had  been  half  an  hour." 

.  Fanny  did  not  stir — her  heart  almost  stopped 
beating  from  astonishment,  which  she  had  no 
mind  to  betray. 

"  St.  Simon's  ghost,"  said  she,  calmly ;  "well, 
I  have  always  wanted  to  meet  a  ghost.  Was  it 
warm  down  there?" 

"Upon  my  word,  I  believe  nothing  could  sur 
prise  that  creature !"  he  cried,  admiringly.  "It's 
so  dark  I  can't  see  you.  Come,  and  bid  me  wel 
come." 


"Wait  till  I  light  a  candle,"  returned  she. 
"No,  I  remember,  I  have  no  matches.  An 
toinette  used  the  last  one  to  kindle  the  fire." 

"Nice  housekeeping,"  he  said,  laughing  still. 
"Have  you  let  yourselves  get  out  of  every  thing 
else  too  ?" 

"We  have  half  a  bottle  of  salad-oil  and  a 
cold  cauliflower,"  said  Fanny.  "I  had  serious 
thoughts  of  cooking  the  Tortoise  to-morrow.  I 
couldn't  keep  her  any  longer;  so  the  kindest 
thing  seemed  to  be  to  eat  her." 

St.  Simon  had  struck  a  match ;  now  he  held 
it  up,  and  stared  at  her  by  the  faint  gleam. 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

"  There's  the  candle  just  by  you.  Don't  waste 
the  allumette — I've  grown  economical.  You'd 
better  save  the  end  of  it ;  one  can  chew  wax 
when  there's  nothing  else  to  be  got." 

"  She's  daft,"  said  St.  Simon,  who  by  this  time 
had  lighted  the  candle ;  "quite  daft." 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  said  Fanny,  rising. 

They  shook  hands  warmly.  St.  Simon  pressed 
his  lips  upon  the  dainty  white  ringers.  It  was 
the  sole  salute  he  ever  offered  her,  and  it  was  by 
just  such  courtesy  that  he  retained  a  warm  place 
in  Fanny's  mind,  little  as  she  respected  him.' 

"I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"You  look  very  well." 

"  So  do  you — for  a  ghost.  When  did  you  die, 
St.  Simon  ?"  she  asked,  gravely. 

"I'm  terribly  hungry — " 

"  There's  a  half-bottle  of  salad-oil,  a  cold  cau 
liflower —  oh!  and  the  Tortoise,"  interrupted 
Fanny. 

"How  is  she?  I  peeped  into  the  salon,  but 
she  was  fast  asleep ;  so  I  came  on  in  search  of 
you." 

"  She  is  very  well.  Six  times  each  day  she 
has  said,  '  St.  Simon  will  arrive  to-morrow — I 
dreamed  it.'" 

"Poor  old  Tortoise!  Well,  aren't  you  glad 
to  see  me  ?" 

"Yes,  but  awe  -  stricken ;  one  always  is  at 
sight  of  a  ghost." 

"  One  would  suppose  you  had  not  heard  from 
me  since  I  went  away,"  he  said,  rather  impa 
tiently. 

"Never,"  she  replied,  carelessly. 

"Why,  Fan!  I  have  written  once  a  month ! 
Didn't  you  get  the  check  ?" 

"I  have  had  a  good  many  bills  lately,"  said 
Fanny ;  "  but  I  don't  think  that  is  the  same." 

"Didn't  you  get  the  money  I  sent  —  the 
draft  ?" 

"I've  seen  no  money  for  a  fortnight,  except 
a  pewter  half-franc  which  Antoinette  keeps  for 
luck,"  returned  Fanny. 

St.  Simon  looked  so  genuinely  astonished  that 
she  decided  ho  was  about  to  tell  an  enormous 
falsehood. 

"I  sent  you  a  draft  for  three  thousand  francs 
in  August,"  he  said.  "I  wrote  you  when  I 


12 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


should  be  here,  what  had  detained  me,  and  all 
about  it." 

Fanny  regarded  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  and 
appeared  deaf. 

"I'm  telling  you  the  truth,  Fanny,"  he  con 
tinued.  She  looked  more  deaf  than  ever. 

"I  sent  the  draft  to  Holtinguer — wrote  you 
here  to  the  house  that  you  would  find  it  there. 
I'll  go  with  you  to  the  bank  to-morrow  morning 
— it's  the  truth." 

Fanny  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"I  perceive  it  is  now,"  she  said,  calmly;  "I 
should  have  believed  you  at  first,  only  you  were 
so  earnest  about  it." 

"  Mauvaise  langue  .'"  he  cried,  laughing  again. 
"And  you've  not  heard  from  me?" 

"  Never  a  line." 

"  But  how  have  you  managed  ?" 

"Paid  money  as  long  as  I  had  it — gone  on 
credit  since.  I'm  at  the  end  of  that  now.  I 
was  just  debating  at  which  cafe  I  should  appear 
as  prima  donna." 

"It's  too  bad !     I'm  awfully  sorry,  Fan !" 

"Oh !  never  mind — I  think  I  liked  it." 

"Has  the  Tortoise  worried  you ?" 

"No ;  she  knew  nothing  about  the  state  of  af 
fairs.  But,  now  you  are  back,  the  matter  grows 
more  complicated — you  must  eat,  too,  and  you 
eat  a  good  deal." 

"But  I've  loads  of  money — " 

"In  prospective?" 

"Hang  it,  no!  I  tell  you  things  have  gone 
splendidly !  Why,  in  a  few  months  I  can  dou 
ble  your  twenty  thousand  for  you." 

"My  expectations  don't  go  beyond  to-mor 
row's  dinner,"  said  Fanny.  "Are  you  sure  you 
have  money  to  pay  for  it  ?" 

He  drew  a  purse  from  his  pocket,  and  showed 
her  a  goodly  pile  of  English  sovereigns,  took  out 
a  draft,  and  let  her  see  the  amount. 

"We  need  not  take  to  the  cafe  chantant  or  a 
hand-organ,  yet,"  she  remarked,  quietly. 

"Can  one  never  surprise  you?"  he  inquired. 
"You  don't  ask  a  single  question !" 

"  You  always  taught  me  it  was  ill-bred,  or  in 
convenient." 

"Upon  my  word,  you're  sharper-tongued  than 
ever!  Never  mind,  Fan,  our  stock  is  up — we'll 
have  rare  times !  But  the  first  thing  is  to  dine — " 

"A  half-bottle  of  salad-oil,  a  cauli — " 

"  Oh !  confound  it,  don't !  I  say,  let's  go  out 
to  a  restaurant.  We'll  dine  comfortably,  and  I'll 
tell  you  all  my  news." 

"Very  well;  go  and  speak  to  the  Tortoise 
while  I  change  my  dress." 

"I  must  wash  my  own  face — I'm  just  in  by 
the  Calais  train.  Which  is  the  Tortoise's  cham 
ber?  I'll  find  water  and  towels  there,  I  sup 
pose." 

She  opened  the  door  into  the  next  room. 

"I've  no  candle  except  this," she  said;  "but 
there's  one  somewhere  on  her  dressing-table. 


You  can  have  the  chamber  beyond  hers — 111 
tell  Antoinette  to  get  it  ready." 

"I  say,  Fan,  I'll  lay  a  wager  that  when  the 
Tortoise  wakes  up  and  sees  me,  her  first  words 
are,  'Oh,  St.  Simon — there,  I've  lost  my  snuff 
box  ! ' " 

He  went  away  laughing,  and  Fanny  dressed 
herself  by  the  light  of  the  solitary  taper.  She 
was  skillful  enough  with  her  needle  when  she 
chose,  and,  in  spite  of  her  lack  of  money,  had 
managed  to  alter  her  out-of-door  garments  so 
that  they  looked  as  stylish  and  fresh  as  if  just 
from  the  hands  of  a  Parisian  modiste. 

"Are  you  ready?"  she  asked,  tapping  at  the 
door  of  the  adjoining  room,  when  her  toilet  was 
complete. 

He  came  in,  looking  wonderfully  young  and 
handsome.  It  occurred  to  Fanny  to  marvel 
about  his  age.  He  must  be  near  fifty,  but  there 
was  no  trace  of  it  in  either  countenance  or  figure 
— tall,  slight,  and  active  as  a  boy  of  eighteen. 

They  passed  on  to  the  salon;  the  Tortoise  woke 
from  her  nap  at  their  entrance,  looked  up,  and 
said,  in  the  calmest  voice, 

"Oh,  St.  Simon —  There,  I've  lost  my  snuff 
box!" 

Her  listeners  began  to  laugh ;  but  St.  Simon 
went  forward,  shook  hands  with  her  decorously, 
and  said, 

' '  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  Don't  agitate  your 
self  ;  here's  your  box  on  the  table." 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  the  Tortoise,  helplessly, 
blinking  like  a  white  owl,  "  and  I  never  do  let 
him  know  I  take  snuff!" 

"It  shall  remain  as  profound  a  mystery  as 
ever,  my  love,"  said  he.  "Fanny  is  going  out 
with  me.  I'll  say  good-night,  in  case  you  should 
be  in  bed  before  we  get  back." 

"Why — it's  very  sudden — Fanny  did  not  tell 
me  you  had  written  ;  but  I  expected  you — I  did, 
Fanny,"  mumbled  the  Tortoise,  still  too  much 
oppressed  by  sleep  to  know  whether  it  was  reali 
ty  or  a  dream. 

She  had  been  a  pretty  woman  in  her  youth ; 
she  was  fat  now,  and  looked  somehow  as  if  com 
ing  to  bits,  but  she  was  pretty  still,  and  her  va 
cant  blue  eyes  had  an  expression  like  those  of  a 
drowsy  baby.  They  left  her,  and  she  resumed 
her  nap  without  delay.  On  the  staircase  they 
encountered  Antoinette,  who  chattered  like  a 
paroquet,  in  her  delight  and  surprise. 

"At  last  I  have  created  a  sensation,"  cried 
St.  Simon  ;  "  I  am  enchanted !  Behold  twenty 
francs,  Antoinette." 

"Well,"  said  Fanny,  in  English,  "you  must 
have  found  a  gold-mine." 

"Exactly — you  have  hit  the  right  word!"  he 
answered.  "  Where  shall  we  go,  Fanny  ?" 

"We  must  walk  down  the  hill  to  find  a  car 
riage.  Oh,  anywhere  that's  nice !  I've  not  been 
in  a  restaurant  for  so  long,  it  will  seem  quite 
jolly." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


13 


"What  a  horrid  quarter !"  exclaimed  St.  Si 
mon,  as  they  stepped  into  the  street.  "I  really 
wonder  how  people  exist  here." 

"  So  you  don't  think  of  staying?" 

"We'll  remove  to-morrow.  I  think  one  of 
those  apartments  up  in  the  Avenue  Friedland 
will  be  the  thing,  eh  ?" 

"They're  always  rather  dear." 

"Oh,  don't  do  the  economy!  At  present  our 
dodge  is  to  make  a  show.  Many  Americans 
here,  do  you  know  ?" 

"A  good  many  of  the  old  set.  I  saw  a  regis 
ter  the  other  day  with  a  list  of  names :  of  course 
I've  seen  nobody." 

"  Of  course  !  Well,  we'll  dawn  upon  them  in 
our  new  apartment — impress  upon  the  Tortoise 
that  we  have  just  come  from  Schwalbach." 

"Only  she  can't  pronounce  the  word,"  said 
Fanny. 

"  So  much  the  better  ;  but,  whatever  she  calls 
it,  there  you  staid  while  I  was  in  America." 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  saying  any  thing," 
replied  Fanny. 

"But  it  is  very  important  that  no  one  should 
know  you  have  been  lodged  in  this  beastly  den." 

"Nobody  will ;  who's  to  ask  or  care  ?  If  we 
can  give  the  people  something  to  eat  in  a  nice 
place,  they'll  not  inquire  where  we've  been,  or 
how  we  got  our  money." 

"All  the  same,  I  shall  give  them  a  little  infor 
mation." 

They  descended  the  hill.  St.  Simon  hailed  a 
fiacre,  and  they  drove  away  to  a  restaurant  on 
the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 

"Do  you  know  where  Helen  Devereux  is?" 
St.  Simon  asked,  suddenly. 

"  Helen  Devereux ! "  repeated  Fanny.  ' '  What 
on  earth  brought  her  into  your  head  ?" 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  where  she  is?" 

"No;  how  should  I?"  returned  Fanny. 
"Haven't  I  been  buried  alive  for  four  months?" 

"The  sepulture  seems  to  have  agreed  with 
you,"  he  said ;  "  you're  looking  wonderfully  well. 
So  you've  no  idea  of  Miss  Devereux's  where 
abouts?" 

"I  don't  suppose  you  fancy  that  we  corre 
spond,"  retorted  she,  with  a  somewhat  bitter 
laugh.  "  I  remember,  though,  last  spring  seeing 
her  name  in  the  Morning  Post.  She  may  be  in 
England  still." 

"Her  bankers  will  be  able  to  tell, "returned 
St.  Simon.  "  The  boulevards  look  quite  gay ; 
not  so  well  lighted  as  formerly." 

"Oh,  Paris  is  detestable — dead!"  cried  Fan 
ny- 

"You'll  find  it  look  pleasanter  in  our  new 
quarter,  with  plenty  of  fresh  dresses  and  a  car 
riage  at  your  command." 

"  Quel  luxe .'"  laughed  she. 

"I  know  what  I  am  about,"  said  he. 

"  My  dear  St.  Simon,  I  shall  never  doubt  it 
while  you  talk  to  me  of  having  new  dresses  and  a 


carriage  !  But  you've  not  told  me  yet  the  mean 
ing  of  all  this  proposed  splendor — I  mean,  where 
the  funds  come  from." 

"Because  you've  not  asked.  My  dear,  I  am 
secretary  of  the  Nevada  Silver  Mining  Company. 
I  can't  see  your  face,  but  you're  sneering — you 
are  wrong.  The  company  exists,  the  mine  ex 
ists,  the  shares  are  real  and  valuable ;  we  want 
a  few  more  names  and  a  little  more  money — we 
shall  have  both." 

"Do  you  imagine  that  Helen  Devereux  will 
be  induced  to  put  her  shekels  into  such  a 
scheme  ?" 

"Nobody  cares  whether  she  does  or  not — 
only  don't  call  it  a  scheme;  I  can  prove  its 
reality  even  to  you.  But  I'll  tell  you  this :  Miss 
Devereux  owns  a  tract  of  land  close  to  the  mine. 
I  have  satisfied  myself  it  holds  silver  too.  If  I 
can,  I  should  like  to  become  the  possessor  of  it 
before  she  or  the  company  learns  its  value." 

"She  doesn't  like  you,  and  she  hates  me,"  said 
Fanny. 

"Which  speaks  poorly  for  her  taste,"  he  ob 
served,  calmly.  "But  I  mean  to  find  her,  and 
I  want  you  to  be  good  friends." 

Fanny  did  not  notice  his  remark.  "And 
Besson,"  she  cried,  "my  dear  old  Besson? — 
what  a  wretch  I  am  not  to  have  asked  about 
him  at  first ! " 

"He  is  well ;  he  came  back  with  me,  of  course ; 
and  oh,  how  sea-sick  he  was!"  and  St.  Simon 
laughed. 

"But  why  did  he  not  come  to  the  house?  I 
am  sure  he  has  a  right  to  his  own  apartment." 

"Just  his  delicacy — afraid  he  might  be  in 
your  way ;  but  we  will  give  it  up  to  him  very 
soon.  He  is  your  devout  worshiper  still,  Fan ! 
Ill  as  he  was  on  the  voyage,  he  could  always 
talk  of  you  and  the  grand  fortune  we  were  bring 
ing  you." 

"So  he  is  interested  in  your  mine?" 

"My  dear  child,  I  should  never  have  got  hold 
of  the  matter  but  for  him.  That  scape-grace  son 
of  his,  you  know,  died  in  California.  Somehow 
he  had  possession  of  these  lands — won  them  at 
cards,  may  be.  Besson  never  thought  any  tiling 
about  it  till  I  stumbled  over  the  papers  ;  that  was 
what  sent  me  off  to  America  in  such  haste." 

St.  Simon  hated  explanations,  and  Fanny  ask 
ed  for  no  more.  Besson  would  tell  her;  his 
narrative  would  possess  an  advantage  over  nny 
story  her  present  companion  might  have  to  relate ; 
she  could  believe  in  its  accuracy. 

"I  can  assure  Miss  Devereux  she  might  do 
worse  than  join  us,"  St.  Simon  burst  out,  pres 
ently.  "  We  have  splendid  names  ;  there's  no 
doubt  about  success  this  time,  Fan.  You  have 
heard  of  Gregory  Alleyne  ?" 

She  started  slightly,  in  spite  of  her  self-con 
trol. 

"  Why  do  you  mention  those  two  together?" 
she  inquired. 


14 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"  For  no  reason  ;  they  are  not  acquainted,  that 
I  am  aware.  But  you  have  heard  of  him  ?" 

"Yes,  as  a  very  rich  man." 

"Enormously  rich  !  Well,  he  is  interested  in 
our  mine.  A  very  agreeable  fellow  too  —  you 
will  see  him." 

"Is  he  in  Paris ?" 

"  No,  but  he  sails  for  Europe  shortly." 

Fanny  did  not  speak.  It  was  odd  that  he 
should  want  to  find  Helen  Devereux,  and  that 
Gregory  Alleyne  was  soon  to  be  near.  She  had 
never  seen  the  man,  yet  the  two  were  always  con 
nected  in  her  mind. 

Of  all  human  beings,  Miss  Devereux  was  the 
only  one  Fanny  really  hated,  as  she  was  the  only 
one  to  whom  the  girl  had  ever  done  a  downright, 
deliberately  cruel  wrong. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OLD   BE88ON. 

THE  next  morning  St.  Simon  asked  his  niece 
to  go  with  him  in  search  of  an  apartment — a 
more  suitable  apartment,  he  phrased  it.  Fanny 
refrained  from  asking  if  he  meant  more  suitable 
for  himself,  though  he  perfectly  understood  the 
merrily  malicious  glance  she  gave  him.  But  he 
was  in  too  high  good-humor  to  take  offense ;  he 
only  shook  his  head  at  her,  offered  some  compli 
ment  on  her  appearance,  and  actually  sent  the 
Tortoise  a  bouquet  into  her  bedroom,  a  haven  of 
refuge  which  she  never  left  till  noon. 

' '  He  must  have  found  a  gold  mountain,  he  is 
so  cheerful,"  Antoinette  whispered  to  her  young 
mistress,  while  that  lady  was  dressing  to  accom 
pany  her  uncle.  "  Hark !  how  he  sings !  And  I 
never  knew  him  rise  so  early  in  my  life." 

"Never  mind,"  replied  Fanny,  "we'll  take 
'  the  goods  the  gods  provide,'  and  ask  no  ques 
tions." 

She  translated  the  quotation  into  French,  of 
course,  as  Antoinette  was  in  happy  ignorance  of 
English.  Antoinette  saw  fit  to  be  shocked ;  she 
was  liable  to  little  attacks  of  piety,  which  evapo 
rated  in  lectures. 

"Mademoiselle  said  the  gods ;  surely  she  knows 
that  is  like  the  ancient  heathens,"  cried  Antoi 
nette,  reproachfully. 

"And  who  were  they  ?"  asked  Fanny. 

" Dame,  mademoiselle  ought  to  remember;  it 
is  not  for  an  ignorant  old  woman  like  me  to  re 
mind  her,"  answered  Antoinette,  with  wise  hu 
mility.  "  They  lived,  I  think,  in  the  Elawns ;  it 
is  some  part  of  England,  very  sure." 

She  meant  the  Highlands,  Fanny  discovered. 
According  to  Antoinette,  whatever  was  dreadful 
originated  in  perfide  Albion.  It  was  the  home 
of  paganism  and  heresy,  and  her  hatred  of  it  went 
even  beyond  her  horror  of  Prussia,  because  a  much 
older  sentiment. 


"We  are  to  have  a  new  apartment,"  she  con 
tinued, "  and  domestics  and  a  carriage — monsieur 
has  told  me." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  us,"  said  Fanny.  "  I 
am  glad  you  will  have  an  easier  life  for  a  while." 

"  It  is  no  matter  for  me,"  Antoinette  replied ; 
black  bread  is  good  enough  for  an  old  woman, 
but  mademoiselle  is  young,  and  young  birds  like 
to  fly :  it  is  natural." 

Just  here  St.  Simon's  voice  called  from  with 
out.  "  Shall  you  soon  be  ready,  Fan  ?" 

She  went  to  meet  him,  and  Antoinette  fol 
lowed. 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  arrange  every  thing  to-day, 
monsieur?"  she  asked. 

"We  shall  get  into  new  quarters  to-morrow," 
he  answered.  "  You  will  have  to  consider  your 
self  housekeeper,  Antoinette.  I  suppose  there 
will  be  no  end  of  trouble  about  servants  just 
now." 

"All  Communards,"  returned  Antoinette,  dis 
dainfully  ;  but  her  face  showed  that  she  consid 
ered  herself  equal  to  dealing  with  the  worst  of 
the  lot,  and  getting  the  mastery  too. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  without*  an  ounce  of 
superfluous  flesh  on  her  bones ;  her  face  wrinkled 
and  brown  as  a  nut ;  a  hard-headed  old  creature, 
whose  best  quality  was  a  warm  devotion  to  Ma 
demoiselle  Fanny.  She  clung  to  her  tall,  com 
ical  Brittany  cap  and  her  early  superstitions,  and 
was  a  difficult  person  to  manage  unless  through 
her  affections  or  her  pride,  though  neither  were 
strong  enough  to  make  her  truthful.  There  prob 
ably  was  not  so  unscrupulous  a  liar  to  be  found  in 
France  at  that  moment  —  always  excepting  St. 
Simon  himself.  But  he  never  lied  without  a  mo 
tive,  and  a  strong  one,  whereas  Antoinette  lied 
apparently  from  sheer  excess  of  imagination. 

"  Where  are  we  going  first?"  Fanny  asked  her 
uncle,  as  they  walked  down  the  hill  in  search  of  a 
hack. 

"  To  Holtinguers's ;  I  want  to  get  the  draft." 

So  they  drove  there,  and  Fanny  sat  in  the  car 
riage  while  St.  Simon  entered  the  bank.  Pres 
ently  he  came  back,  and  put  a  letter  in  her  hands. 

"Open it,"  he  said. 

Sure  enough,  there  was  the  check  for  three 
thousand  francs. 

"  It  would  have  looked  a  very  large  sum  to 
me  last  week,"  said  she. 

"Don't  speak  of  it,  I  am  shocked!  Never 
mind ;  it  will  answer  now  to  buy  your  chiffons," 
he  replied. 

The  silver  mine  might  prove  a  pit  for  the  un 
wary,  but  one  thing  was  certain — St.  Simon  must 
have  plenty  of  money.  Fanny  contented  herself 
with  this  reflection,  and  decided  that  it  would  be 
wisdom  to  secure  her  prize  without  delay.  She 
suggested  that,  as  they  were  at  the  bank,  they 
had  better  get  the  draft  cashed. 

" Of  course,"  he  said;  "but  you  must  come 
in  to  sign  your  name  :  it  is  made  payable  to  you." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


15 


He  helped  her  out  of  the  carriage,  and  they 
went  into  the  house.  In  a  few  moments  the  ugly 
thick  billets  were  safe  in  Fanny's  porte-monnaie. 

"I  sha'n't  borrow  them,"  St.  Simon  said, 
laughing,  as  they  drove  off  again.  "  Buy  what 
you  like,  Fan,  you  need  some  dresses  —  I  know 
you'll  not  be  extravagant.  Now,  then,  we'll 
choose  a  place  to  pitch  our  tent  ;  after  that  I'll 
take  you  to  your  modiste." 

They  spent  as  pleasant  a  morning  together  as 
if  they  had  not  been  relations,  and  returned  in 
high  spirits.  When  they  reached  home  Antoi 
nette  informed  Fanny  that  Monsieur  Besson  was 
in  the  salon. 

"  Then  I  shall  disappear,"  St.  Simon  observed. 
"  The  old  soul  would  rather  delight  at  seeing 
you  without  my  presence.  We  will  dine  out, 
Fan,  I  think." 

"Then  we  must  take  T.  with  us,"  she  an 
swered.  "  Nothing  she  enjoys  so  much  as  a  din 
ner  at  a  restaurant.  " 

"As  you  please,  "said  St.  Simon,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  We  might  go  to  the  Vaudeville  aft 
erward  ;  the  Tortoise  can  sleep  as  comfortably 
in  the  loge  as  she  would  at  home  in  her  chair." 

Fanny  laughed  assent,  and  passed  on  into  the 
salon.  The  Tortoise  was  slumbering  tranquilly 
in  her  corner,  and  Besson  sat  with  an  album  open 
before  him,  looking  at  Fanny's  picture. 

He  was  a  little  hard  of  hearing  ;  she  crossed 
the  room  softly  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoul 
der. 

"That  can't  speak,  and  I  can,"  said  she. 
"  My  dear  Besson,  my  best  of  Bessons,  soyez  le 
bienvenu  !  How  very  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !" 

The  old  man  started  as  if  her  light  touch  had 
given  him  an  electric  shock.  He  rose,  seized  her 
two  hands,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  them,  for  a 
moment  absolutely  unable  to  utter  a  syllable. 

"What!  not  a  word  to  say?"  cried  Fanny, 


"  So  many  that  I  can  not  tell  which  to  speak 
first,"  he  replied  ;  and  as  he  raised  his  head  she 
could  see  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"I  do  believe  he  is  actually  glad  to  find  me 
again,  this  foolish  Besson,"  laughed  she. 

"Yes,  a  foolish  old  Besson,"  he  answered, 
gently;  "  but  glad  —  oh,  so  glad!  —  to  see  you." 

"Then  sit  down,  and  tell  me  about  every 
thing.  Only  think  —  I  never  received  a  line  from 
cither  of  you." 

"St.  Simon  told  me  this  morning.  And  yet 
we  wrote." 

"  I  know  ;  but  I  never  thought  of  going  to  the 
banker's.  How  well  you  look  !  The  voyage  has 
done  you  good." 

He  was  a  little  old  man,  at  least  seventy,  with 
silky  white  hair,  and  a  face  no  line  of  whose  feat 
ures  ever  seemed  meant  to  appear  in  company. 
Yet  it  was  such  a  good,  kind  face,  that  after  the 
first  feeling  of  wonder  one  only  thought  of  the 
sweet  expression  which  fairly  beautified  it.  His 


legs  were  too  short,  else  his  body  was  too  long ; 
his  left  shoulder  so  much  higher  than  the  other 
that  he  was  almost  deformed — as  if  Nature  had 
not  been  able  to  do  enough  to  shew  herself  a 
cruel  step-mother  where  he  was  concerned. 

He  had  known  Fanny  from  the  time  St.  Simon 
brought  her  to  Europe  a  child — had  always  proved 
her  devoted  slave.  Besson's  life  had  been  a  hard 
one.  Neither  tenderness  nor  gratitude  had  come 
much  in  his  way  ;  and  though  Fanny  tyrannized 
over  him,  she  was  attentive  and  affectionate,  and 
Besson  worshiped  her.  In  his  humility  he  would 
net  have  dreamed  of  asking  more,  had  he  pos 
sessed  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  and  the  grandest 
title  in  Europe ;  but  he  loved  her — loved  her 
with  the  self-sacrificing  spirit  of  a  father  and  the 
passion  of  a  youthful  adorer ;  and,  old  and  bent, 
and  near  the  end  of  his  earthly  pilgrimage  as  he 
was,  Besson  had  never  loved  another  woman. 

He  had  been  married  years  and  years  before, 
in  the  days  when  he  was  rich ;  but  he  seldom 
spoke  of  that  season,  even  to  Fanny.  The  wife 
who  tortured  him  was  long  since  dead.  A  few 
years  previous  to  the  time  of  which  I  write,  his 
only  son  died,  after  spending  nearly  the  last  rem 
nant  of  Besson's  fortune. 

The  young  fellow  ended  a  rapid  course  of  follv 
and  sin  by  a  crime  which  would  have  brought 
him  to  the  galleys,  had  he  not  escaped.  Some 
property  Besson  owned  in  New  York  he  made 
over  to  the  boy,  hoping  always  that  he  might  be 
gin  a  new  and  better  career  in  that  distant  land 
— redeem,  perhaps,  his  promise  of  sending  for  his 
father.  He  never  sent,  and  at  last  Besson  learn 
ed  that  he  was  dead.  St.  Simon  succeeded  in 
having  such  effects  as  he  left  forwarded  to  Besson 
after  much  delay.  It  was  in  searching  these 
trunks  that  St.  Simon  found  the  papers  which  in 
spired  him  with  the  idea  of  going  to  America. 

Young  Besson  had  exchanged  the  New  York 
property  for  a  little  ready  money  and  a  tract  of 
land  in  Nevada.  A  few  days  after  reading  the 
paper,  St.  Simon  chanced  to  encounter  a  famous 
mineralogist  just  returned  from  America.  He 
displayed  some  wonderful  specimens  of  silver  ore. 
St.  Simon  discovered  that  they  came  from  the 
deserted  mine  opened  on  the  property  Besson  had 
bought.  The  persons  who  sold  the  young  man 
the  land  had  believed  the  vein  a  failure ;  but  the 
mineralogist  was  convinced  of  its  value,  and  his 
reputation  rendered  this  verdict  decisive — would 
do  so  to  the  world  at  large  as  well  as  to  St.  Simon. 

So  St.  Simon  went  to  America,  and  took  old 
Besson  with  him.  Every  thing  succeeded  as 
happily  as  his  vivid  fancy  had  imagined ;  here 
was  wealth  at  last.  Among  the  original  propri 
etors  of  the  tract  was  a  man  St.  Simon  knew 
well,  a  man  as  unscrupulous  as  himself,  without 
his  talent.  He  became  St.  Simon's  confederate, 
and  was  to  have  the  charge  of  the  works,  which 
were  to  recommence  as  soon  as  a  company  and 
capital  could  be  raised. 


16 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


New  York  chanced  to  be  in  a  mood  to  listen. 
Mining  schemes  in  these  far-off  lands  were  the 
rage.  St.  Simon  had  no  difficulty  in  interesting 
men  whose  names  and  position  were  sufficient  to 
give  his  plans  a  stable  foundation  at  once. 

So  Fanny  learned  from  Besson  that  the  exist 
ence  of  the  mine  and  the  company  were  absolute 
facts.  The  old  man  was  sanguine  of  success. 
He  told  her  the  whole  story,  beginning  with  the 
discovery  of  the  papers,  and  Fanny  listened, 
while  the  Tortoise  slumbered  in  her  chair  as 
peacefully  as  if  neither  success  nor  failure  mat 
tered. 

"  Then  it  is  really  no  dream  of  St.  Simon's — 
not  even  one  of  his  brilliant  fables,"  Fanny  said, 
thoughtfully,  when  the  Frenchman  had  ended  the 
long  account  which  I  have  condensed  into  as  few 
words  as  possible. 

"  I  should  have  gone  to  my  grave  never  know 
ing  what  wealth  was  in  my  reach,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  him,"  Besson  replied.  His  admiration 
for  St.  Simon  was  unbounded ;  he  believed  in 
him  too;  but  more  acute  people  than  Besson 
had  often  done  so.  Fanny  perceived  that  St. 
Simon  had  managed  to  secure  the  lion's  share ; 
but  the  old  man  was  so  perfectly  content  that 
she  did  not  bring  the  fact  before  his  observa 
tion. 

What  Besson  cared  most  for  was  the  fact  that 
he  should  now  have  a  fortune  to  leave  Fanny ; 
this  had  been  the  great  charm  which  the  project 
possessed  for  him  from  the  first.  He  told  her 
this,  too,  as  simply  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  and  Fanny  accepted  it  as 
such.  She  could  not  in  the  instant  reach  the 
complete  faith  he  held  in  regard  to  success.  St. 
Simon's  schemes  had  been  too  numerous.  She 
had  seen  so  many  fine  bubbles  vanish  into  thin 
air,  that,  even  with  the  confirmation  of  what  had 
already  been  done  to  serve  as  an  earnest  for  the 
future,  she  was  not  able  to  think  of  the  affair  as 
a  positive  reality.  But  she  refrained  from  troub 
ling  Besson  by  any  expression  of  doubt.  Indeed, 
whether  the  project  succeeded  ultimately  or  not, 
one  thing  was  certain — St.  Simon  had  already 
got  hold  of  some  money  by  it ;  therefore  life  for 
the  next  few  months  was  likely  to  prove  sunny 
and  agreeable.  Fanny  was  so  thorough  a  Bo 
hemian  by  nature  that  she  was  quite  ready  to 
take,  as  she  had  said  to  Antoinette,  "the  goods 
the  gods  provided,"  and  be  content.  If  she  could 
amuse  herself  to-day,  she  would  to  the  fullest  ex 
tent,  and  put  the  to-morrow  out  of  her  mind, 
though  it  might  loom  dinnerless  in  the  distance. 

The  present  prospect  promised  more  than  this 
— a  season  of  luxury,  a  resumption  of  her  place 
in  society,  consideration  and  attention  from  her 
countrymen,  all  the  gayeties  which  Paris  could 
offer  after  its  recent  humiliation.  Fanny  was 
satisfied,  and  beamed  upon  Besson  till  his  very 
soul  filled  with  sunshine,  and  he  wove  golden 
visions  for  her  future — always  hers  ;  the  advan 


tages  to  accrue  to  him  from  these  successes  were 
of  slight  consequence. 

"You ought  to  come  and  live  with  us," Fanny 
said,  when  they  had  arrived  at  a  discussion  of 
St.  Simon's  proposed  flitting. 

Besson  shook  his  head. 

"The  old  man  will  stay  here, "he  answered. 

"I  am  fond  of  the  place;  habit  is  much  at 
my  age.  And  now  I  shall  love  the  dark,  dingy 
rooms  better  than  ever  because  you  have  lived 
in  them.  I  find  my  servant  Babette  is  ready 
to  come  to  me  again.  I  will  jog  on  in  my  usual 
fashion.  I  need  no  change." 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  more  comfortable," 
Fanny  said.  ' '  But  you  must  come  often  to  see 
us — though  you  will  be  busy,  I  suppose." 

"No,  no;  I  am  too  old  for  business.  It  is 
all  in  St.  Simon's  hands.  He  needs  no  assist 
ance  ;  he  does  not  want  me  bothered." 

Fanny  offered  no  objection  to  this  either. 
What  she  thought  was,  "Ah,  well,  the  poor  soul 
will  not  last  long  enough  to  be  troubled,  if  it  is 
only  a  bubble ;  and  I  can  take  care  of  my  own 
interests,  if  there  prove  to  be  any,  in  spite  of  St. 
Simon's  craftiness." 

Then  she  listened  again  to  Besson's  expres 
sions  of  thankfulness  that  her  fortune  was  now 
secured,  and  was  cheerful,  as  if  she  believed  as 
thoroughly  as  he  in  their  certainty,  though  had 
she  done  so,  it  probably  would  never  have  oc 
curred  to  her  to  feel  gratitude  in  any  quarter. 
She  would  have  wondered  a  little  at  "her  luck," 
and  accepted  it  as  philosophically  as  she  did  the 
evil  turns  chance  or  fate  had  so  often  played  her. 
She  told  Besson  nothing  of  the  straits  she  had 
been  in  since  their  departure,  because,  though 
she  and  St.  Simon  could  laugh  over  them,  the 
knowledge  would  have  caused  the  old  man  great 
pain.  He  possessed  a  little  income,  more  than 
sufficient  for  his  wants,  and  had  often  supplied 
Fanny's  needs  from  his  own  purse.  But  when 
he  and  St.  Simon  were  preparing  to  go  to  Amer 
ica,  the  latter's  funds  chanced  to  be  at  a  low 
ebb,  and  he  captured  all  the  money  Besson  could 
scrape  together. 

This  was  Thursday.  On  Saturday  they  were 
established  in  a  pretty  entresol  of  a  fine  house  on 
the  Avenue  Friedland  ;  a  goodly  staff  of  domes 
tics  provided  for  Antoinette  to  rule  over ;  and 
Fanny,  with  her  peculiar  faculty  of  forgetting 
disagreeable  things,  put  the  Quartier  Montmartre 
leagues  beyond  her  life  immediately. 

The  next  morning,  while  she  was  taking  her 
coffee,  there  came  a  message  from  St.  Simon  to 
know  if  she  would  go  to  church — the  American 
Chapel — asking  also  the  hour  of  service. 

"I  must  be  dreaming,  or  St.  Simon  must  be 
mad,"  thought  Fanny.  "He  go  to  church,  in 
deed  !  What  on  earth  can  it  mean  ?" 

But  she  returned  a  courteous  message ;  and, 
as  it  was  late,  began  to  dress  without  delay.  He 
was  waiting  for  her  in  the  salon — faultless  in  at- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


17 


tire,  looking  as  elegant  and  contented  as  if  he 
had  never  known  a  care. 

"  Here  you  are,"  he  said  ;  "  that's  a  very  pretty 
costume  too — all  black.  I  like  that  for  church ; 
it  has  a  respectful  air,  which  pleases  me. " 

"Bless  me,"  thought  Fanny,  "this  will  end 
ill!  St.  Simon  puzzles  me,  and  he  never  did  that 
before." 

The  new  carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  off 
they  dashed.  Fanny  leaned  comfortably  back 
against  the  soft  cushions,  and  wondered  vaguely 
if  her  acquaintance  with  the  hill  of  Montmartre 
was  only  a  bad  dream. 

The  clergyman  had  just  entered  the  chancel 
as  they  walked  into  the  church.  There  was  a 
tolerably  large  congregation.  St.  Simon  saw  at 
the  first  glance  that  various  members  of  the  col 
ony,  whom  he  needed,  were  already  returned. 
But  he  behaved  with  perfect  decorum,  and  at 
tended  to  his  duties — to  Fanny's  astonishment, 
not  even  troubled  to  find  his  place  in  the  Prayer- 
book,  and  that  was  more  than  could  be  said  for 
a  good  many  persons  present.  One  sees  care 
lessness  and  a  want  of  reverence  in  numerous 
churches ;  but  to  watch  the  perfection  of  ill- 
breeding  and  disrespect  in  that  line  it  is  neces 
sary  to  visit  the  American  Chapel,  Rue  Bayard, 
Paris,  any  Sunday  morning  at  half-past  eleven. 

The  congregation  came  dawdling  in  by  twos 
and  threes  up  to  the  time  the  sermon  commenced: 
the  later  they  came,  the  more  bustle  they  made, 
and  the  more  difficult  they  were  about  suiting 
themselves  in  the  matter  of  seats.  Acquaint 
ances  saluted  each  other  with  pleasant  bows  and 
smiles,  as  if  they  had  been  at  the  opera ;  friends 
seated  within  speaking  distance  whispered  freely ; 
people  stood  up  or  sat  down,  knelt  or  lounged,  as 
they  saw  fit ;  women  appeared  decked  in  rain 
bows,  looking  as  if  they  had  dressed  for  a  ball 
and  strayed  thither  by  mistake  ;  young  men  used 
their  eyeglasses  ;  elderly  men,  fat  and  pompous, 
as  if  stuffed  with  "greenbacks,"  reclined  easily, 
with  complacent,  patronizing  expression  of  face, 
as  who  should  say,  "This  is  well,  very  well ;  re 
ligion  is  right  and  proper.  I  am  willing  to  lend 
the  Lord  the  support  of  my  countenance,  but 
don't  dawdle  ;  get  it  over — get  it  over  ;  time  is 
money,  Mr.  Clergyman ! " 

Just  behind  St.  Simon  and  his  niece  sat  three 
females,  who  beguiled  the  tedium  of  the  service 
by  an  animated  conversation  concerning  the  peo 
ple  as  they  entered — neat  little  scraps  of  biogra 
phy,  or  pleasant  bits  of  scandal  whispered  be 
tween  the  responses.  St.  Simon  listened,  with 
his  Prayer-book  close  to  his  short-sighted  eyes, 
and  was  highly  amused. 

"  That's  Mrs.  Howard — didn't  know  she  was 
back  ;  they  say  she's  got  a,  divorce  from  her  hus 
band."  Then  another :  "  No,  indeed,  he  got  it. 
Oh,  my  dear,  the  awfulest  stories !  And  they 
do  say  she  went  down  and  staid  a  week  at  the 
marquis's  place."  Then  a  soft  chorus  of  "Oh 
2 


my!  Oh  my!"  In  a  moment,  " Who's  that? 
Why,  Annie  Moreton.  She's  going  on  as  bad  as 
ever  witli  Count  Remain,  and  he  as  good  as  mar 
ried.  I  wonder  she  can  show  her  face  in  church. 
There  are  the  Delavals.  She  gambled  so  this 
summer  at  Baden,  that  her  husband,"  etc.,  etc. 
Then  an  instant  given  to  the  service — a  response 
uttered  to  the  prayers — then  more  whispers. 

Fanny  moved  to  the  farther  end  of  the  seat, 
and  favored  the  trio  with  a  glance  which  checked 
them  for  a  little.  She  did  not  pretend  to  be  good 
— I  employ  the  expression  she  would  have  done 
— but  talk  like  this  in  a  sacred  edifice  was  dis 
tasteful  to  her.  St.  Simon's  eyes  twinkled  mis 
chievously  at  her  over  the  edge  of  his  book ;  but 
she  refused  to  see  it.  He  told  her  afterward  that 
she  had  quite  spoiled  his  pleasure.  He  was  cer 
tain  he  had  just  caught  his  own  name  when  her 
steady  regard  silenced  the  gossips. 

The  service  was  over ;  the  rainbows  streamed 
out.  There  were  a  good  many  people  who  knew 
the  St.  Simons,  and  the  sight  of  their  handsome 
carriage  caused  them  to  receive  hearty  greetings. 

"Well,"  said  St.  Simon,  as  they  drove  off, 
"there's  less  difference  between  Christians  and 
sinners  than  I  supposed,  only  the  sinners  are 
rather  better  bred  in  general.  I  told  old  Jen 
nings  and  his  wife  I  should  expect  them  to  dine 
with  me  on  Thursday.  We'll  send  out  some  in 
vitations  to-morrow." 

"The  most  tiresome  people  I  ever  knew,"  said 
Fanny,  wearily. 

"Very  likely;  but  we  want  Jennings  as  a 
share-holder." 

"It's  paying  dear  to  invite  them  to  dinner," 
laughed  Fanny.  "St.  Simon,  we'll  take  the 
Tortoise  to  the  Bois.  I  want  to  see  how  the 
poor  old  wood  looks  after  its  desecration." 

They  did  d^ive  to  the  Bois  later  in  the  day, 
and  Fanny  and  St.  Simon  went  to  the  Gymnase 
in  the  evening.  (I  beg  that  no  one  will  be  shock 
ed  with  me,  or  doubt  my  morality  on  this  account. 
I  am  not  to  blame  for  their  actions ;  all  I  can  do 
is  to  chronicle  them  faithfully.  I  shall  not  set 
up  the  man  or  his  niece  as  a  model.) 

The  next  morning  Fanny  left  cards  at  various 
houses,  cards  were  left  on  them,  and  she  and  St. 
Simon  made  out  the  list  of  invitations  he  wished 
to  send  for  his  dinner-party. 

It  was  almost  dusk ;  Fanny,  usually  good-na 
tured,  had  been  out  into  the  Faubourg  St.  Honord 
with  old  Antoinette  to  choose  that  faithful  ad 
herent  a  new  gown.  As  they  turned  into  the 
avenue,  a  young  man  almost  ran  against  them  in 
his  haste.  He  lifted  his  hat  in  apology,  catching 
sight  of  Fanny's  face  as  he  did  so.  She  had  rec 
ognized  him  at  a  glance,  and  was  hurrying  on, 
but  he  exclaimed, 

"Miss  St.  Simon !— is  it  possible?  I  nm  de 
lighted  to  see  you.  Didn't  know  you  were  in 
Paris." 

There  were  two  tiny  spots  of  vivid  color  on 


18 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


Fanny's  cheeks ;  but  her  veil  hid  them,  and  her 
voice  was  languid  and  unconcerned,  as  she  said, 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Castlemaine ?  I  did 
not  dream  of  meeting  you  here.  Have  you  been 
long  in  Paris  ?" 

"Only  twenty-four  hours.  I  am  on  my  way 
to  England." 

"  On  foot  ?"  she  asked. 

"Not  precisely;  but  I  leave  by  the  half-past 
eight  train." 

"Bon  voyaye,"  said  she,  and  made  a  step  for 
ward. 

He  walked  by  her  side,  while  Antoinette  fell 
a  little  back,  and  dreamed  of  the  effect  her  new 
gown  would  produce.  Nobody  is  too  ignorant 
or  practical  for  visions  of  some  kind. 

"You  don't  seem  in  the  least  glad  to  see  me," 
Mr.  Castlemaine  said. 

"  It  is  scarcely  worth  while,  since  you  are  go 
ing  immediately,"  she  replied. 

"I  wish  I  was  not  obliged,  now  that  I  have 
seen  you,"  returned  he. 

The  voice  was  soft  and  regretful,  but  Fanny 
St.  Simon  had  learned  that  its  tone  meant  noth 
ing.  He  would  have  said  the  same  thing  in  the 
same  way  to  Antoinette ;  it  was  his  habit  with 
women.  She  did  not  even  take  a  second  glance 
at  the  handsome  face,  though  her  heart  was  hun 
gry  to  feast  upon  its  careless  smiles.  She  looked 
straight  before  her,  and  walked  as  quietly  on  as 
though  not  a  pulse  had  quickened. 

"Where  have  you  been  this  age?"  he  asked. 
"I've  not  seen  you  since  the  last  winter  of  the 
dear  old  Empire." 

"  Oh,  I  have  vegetated — like  most  people  to 
whom  Paris  was  home  before  the  siege.  And 
you  ?" 

"I  have  been  in  England — only  came  over  last 
week  to  visit  my  mother's  cousin  at  Munich, 
where  he  has  a  fancy  for  burying  himself  at  pres 
ent — thought  I  would  have  a  peep  at  poor  fallen 
Babylon  on  my  way  back.  Do  you  spend  the 
winter  here?" 

"  I  believe  so.     Shall  we  see  you  again  ?" 

The  voice  was  perfectly  unconcerned,  yet 
Fanny  St.  Simon  waited  breathlessly  for  the  an 
swer. 

"My  plans  are  very  undecided,  but  I  doubt 
my  returning." 

"Who  was  in  London  this  season  that  I 
know  ?"  she  asked. 

"Lots  of  people.  We  had  any  quantity  of 
Americans." 

"Yes ;  I  saw  by  the  lists.  By-the-\vay,  Miss 
Devereux  was  there." 

"Oh,  she  made  a  tremendous  sensation — is 
called  a  beauty,"  he  replied;  but,  somehow,  the 
slow,  drawling  voice  was  not  so  easy  as  it  had 
been. 

"  So  she  is  a  beauty,"  returned  Fanny ;  "  there 
could  not  be  two  opinions  in  regard  to  that. 
Where  is  she  now  ?" 


"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't — oh,  let  me  see !  I 
did  hear  she  had  disappeared  into  Devon." 

Fanny  began  talking  of  other  people  and  things. 
He  accompanied  her  to  the  door  of  her  house. 

"Will  you  come  in?"  she  asked. 

"I'd  like  nothing  better,  but  I  really  must 
take  myself  off." 

She  did  not  try  to  detain  him.  She  had  plenty 
of  persuasive  words  always  at  command  ;  she  had 
a  legion  of  pleading  smiles  and  earnest  glances 
which  few  masculines  could  resist,  but  she  did 
not  essay  the  least  of  them  upon  this  man. 

"Did  you  say  you  were  stopping  in  London  ?'' 
she  asked. 

"I  am  going  down  to  Torquay — " 

He  paused  suddenly ;  Fanny  had  time  to  re 
member  that  Torquay  was  in  Devonshire ;  then 
he  was  adding, 

"Only  for  a  few  days — just  to  see  another  old 
relative." 

"Your  devotion  on  the  shrine  of  relationship 
is  beautiful  and  touching,"  said  she. 

"Ah,  you  know  I'm  a  poor  devil,  dependent 
on  the  whim  of  ancient  uncles  and  aunts,"  he 
answered,  laughing. 

"And  none  of  them  will  die!  How  cruel  to 
you !" 

"  So  I  think,"  returned  he ;  "  but  my  private 
opinions  do  not  seem  to  hasten  their  departure  in 
the  least." 

He  was  going  away — going  to  Helen  Devereux 
— he,  the  sole  man  among  all  her  admirers  who 
had  ever  touched  Fanny  St.  Simon's  heart.  She 
could  not  keep  him ;  she  had  nothing  to  offer. 
Yet  she  knew  he  had  loved  her ;  this  belief  had 
always  been  her  one  solace  in  thinking  of  him. 
But  now  she  asked  herself  bitterly,  what  was  love 
to  this  spoiled,  idle,  extravagant  creature,  upon 
whom  numberless  women  had  wasted  their 
hearts  ?  Had  he  any  thing  beyond  his  marvelous 
beauty,  and  his  dangerous  power  of  pleasing,  to 
recommend  him  ?  She  doubted  if  he  were  capa 
ble  of  loving  any  human  being — able  to  keep  a 
promise  or  a  vow — a  man  who  had  squandered  a 
fortune  in  dissolute  amusements — a  man  who  had 
never  done  a  really' good  act  in  his  life.  She 
recapitulated  these  charges  in  her  mind  as  stern 
ly  as  his  harshest  censor  ever  summed  them  up ; 
yet  at  this  moment  Fanny  St.  Simon  would  have 
flung  her  soul  under  his  feet,  and  let  him  trample 
it,  just  to  hear  one  word  of  tenderness,  one  syl 
lable  of  regret ! 

She  threw  back  her  veil  and  looked  at  him. 
Her  countenance  was  perfectly  composed ;  even 
her  color  did  not  change.  This  girl  possessed  a 
power  of  self-control  which,  under  other  guidance, 
might  have  made  absolute  heroism  easy  to  her. 
She  uttered  merry  words — the  first  which  rose  to 
her  lips ;  all  she  wanted  was  one  long  look  at  his 
face  before  she  lost  him.  Such  a  handsome  face 
— such  a  splendid  specimen  of  manly  beauty  he 
was  in  every  way ;  glorious  almost  as  the  shape 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


19 


in  which  old-time  sculptors  modeled  the  eternal 
youth  of  some  Grecian  god.  Eyes  that  were 
blue  or  hazel  as  the  light  chanced  to  strike  them  ; 
a  mouth  at  once  proud,  melancholy,  and  sweet ; 
smiles  and  glances  which  might  have  disarmed 
the  deadliest  foe ;  a  voice  whose  every  cadence 
was  music.  Nature  seemed  to  have  delighted  in 
perfecting  each  detail,  as  an  artist  lingers  with 
loving  hand  over  his  masterpiece. 

Fanny  threw  back  her  veil  and  gazed,  that  she 
might  photograph  still  more  clearly  on  her  heart 
those  lineaments  already  indelibly  impressed 
thereon.  A  young  face  still,  though  not  youth 
ful  ;  a  face  which  told  of  passion,  reckless  pur 
pose,  impulses  tender  as  a  woman's,  capabilities 
of  good  and  evil  beyond  those  which  most  men 
have  to  nurture  or  struggle  against.  All  this 
she  saw  and  recognized  even  while  her  eyes  were 
dazzled  by  the  beauty  which,  in  its  completeness, 
was  still  so  virile  and  manly  that  the  word  I  have 
employed — usually  feminine  in  its  suggestions — 
became  a  type  of  masculine  perfection,  as  it  does 
when  one  describes  the  statue  of  the  Antinb'us. 

Antoinette's  ideas  of  propriety  would  not  per 
mit  her  really  to  leave  her  young  mistress,  but 
she  passed  on  into  the  shadow  of  the  porte-cochere, 
and  waited  for  the  interview  to  end.  There  was 
no  reason  why  she  should  go.  Had  she  under 
stood  English,  there  was  no  syllable  she  might 
not  have  heard. 

A  few  more  laughing  speeches,  a  few  more 
pleasant  wishes  interchanged,  then  Talbot  Cas- 
tlemaine  bowed  over  Fanny's  gloved  hand,  and 
turned  away.  She  had  lost  him. 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE  TORTOISE'S  TROUBLE. 

ST.  SIMON  walked  into  the  house  with 
out  casting  so  much  as  a  look  behind  her.  She 
answered  quietly  a  volley  of  idle  questions  from 
Antoinette,  mounted  the  stairs,  and  gained  her 
own  chamber. 

She  locked  the  door,  took  off  her  bonnet,  ar 
ranged  various  trifles  on  her  dressing-table,  was 
perfectly  calm  for  several  moments.  Suddenly 
her  composure  gave  way.  She  sat  flat  down  on 
the  hearth-rug,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  sobs 
and  tears.  She  did  not  cry  often,  or  easily ;  but 
now  she  wept  as  if  her  very  heart  were  breaking. 

"What  a  precious  fool  I  am!"  she  muttered, 
at  length.  "But  I  don't  care  —  I  will  cry! 
Oh,  my  life !  oh,  this  horrid,  hateful  world  !  I 
wish  I  could  kill  Helen  Devereux — I'd  do  it — I 
would,  and  be  hanged  with  pleasure." 

She  tore  the  handkerchief  she  held  into  tatters 
as  she  spoke,  and  this  performance  brought  her 
back  to  her  senses ;  for  the  handkerchief  was 
trimmed  with  ducliesse  lace,  and  had  only  been 
purchased  that  morning.  She  got  up  from  the 


rug,  made  a  becoming  toilet,  and  seated  herself 
to  wait  till  the  summons  came  for  dinner. 

"I  am  just  where  I  was  before,"  she  thought. 
"The  world  has  not  come  to  an  end  because 
I  have  seen  Talbot  Castlemaine.  Oh,  Talbot, 
Talbot!" 

Then  it  was  all  to  do  over  again,  and  she 
actually  pulled  down  the  shining  masses  of  hair 
which  she  had  so  carefully  arranged,  and  stamp 
ed  her  feet  like  a  crazy  woman.  But  she  shed 
no  more  tears.  There  was  a  fiery  pain  now  in 
her  head  which  burned  them  up.  So  little  of  a 
story,  so  poor  a  romance !  She  had  known  this 
man  for  several  years ;  she  had  loved  him  from 
the  first  moment  she  looked  in  his  face,  and  he 
was  the  only  one  of  his  sex  whose  presence  ever 
caused  a  pulsation  of  her  heart  to  quicken. 

They  had  met  in  Italy,  down  under  the  pur 
ple  skies  of  beautiful  Sorrento.  Castlemaine 
was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  injured  his  hip. 
St.  Simon  brought  him  home,  and  Fanny  nursed 
him  during  many  long  weeks. 

She  believed  heaven  itself  could  offer  no 
happiness  such  as  hers  was  during  this  season. 
While  the  bliss  lasted,  she  let  herself  think  that 
it  would  never  fade.  He  would  fling  prudence 
to  the  winds ;  let  his  love  conquer  all  difficul 
ties,  and  ask  her  to  become  his  wife.  But  he 
did  not  do  this. 

He  loved  her  —  loved  her  with  a  passion 
which  no  woman  had  ever  before  inspired  in 
him.  Those  weeks  were  as  sweet  to  him  a.s 
they  could  be  to  her.  They  were  all  in  all  to 
one  another.  St.  Simon  had  been  called  away. 
The  Tortoise  was  always  asleep  or  eating.  No 
human  being  intruded  between  them. 

Oh,  those  weeks!  Fanny  St.  Simon  knew 
that  away  down  the  farthest  cycles  of  eternity 
their  memory  must  haunt  her.  They  rambled 
among  the  vine-clad  hills ;  they  sat  on  the  cliffs, 
and  watched  the  sun  set  over  the  golden  waves ; 
•they  floated  about  the  sunny  waters  in  an  en 
chanted  bark,  and  made  charmed  visits  to  Ca 
pri,  with  its  beautiful  marvels.  They  were  hap- 
py;  he  as  happy  as  the  girl  who  loved  him. 
But  the  end  came.  A  relative  upon  whom  he 
was  in  a  measure  dependent  summoned  him 
back  to  England  ;  he  dared  not  refuse. 

Fanny  .made  no  effort  to  keep  him;  she  was 
not  angry  that  he  lacked  fortitude  to  face  care 
and  privation  for  her  sake.  They  talked  the 
matter  plainly  out;  she  argued  the  impossibility 
of  a  marriage  between  them  (as  soon  as  she  per 
ceived  that  he  desired  her  so  to  argue)  as  clearly 
and  dispassionately  as  a  third  person  could  have 
done.  She  was  calmer  than  he,  when  the  mo 
ment  of  parting  arrived ;  but  many  a  woman 
who  has  died  of  a  broken  heart  suffered  less  than 
Fanny  St.  Simon  did  then  and  afterward. 

Tliis  \v:is  the  whole  of  Fanny's  romance— the 
only  one  she  had  ever  known.  Men  had  loved 
her,  and  her  power  over  the  race  was  almost 


20 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


boundless,  but  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  love. 
She  was  to  make  a  rich  marriage  —  it  was  the 
end  and  aim  of  her  existence  ;  yet,  often  as  the 
chance  had  been  offered,  each  time,  to  St.  Si 
mon's  wrath  and  dismay,  she  had  flung  it  from 
her. 

Now  she  had  seen  Talbot  Castlemaine  again — 
a  fleeting  glance,  permitted  to  bring  up  her  wretch 
edness  with  new  force.  But  they  had  met  more 
than  once  since  that  dream  in  Italy — met,  and 
been  gay  and  friendly  —  parted,  and  she  had 
borne  it.  Only  the  last  winter  of  the  Empire — 
just  after  she  had  dealt  her  covert  blow  at  Helen 
Devereux — he  appeared,  and  devoted  himself  to 
the  heiress.  Fanny  had  to  stand  by  and  see  this, 
remembering  that  she  was  powerless,  that  it  was 
her  act,  too,  which  left  Miss  Devereux  at  liberty 
to  listen  to  him  if  she  chose. 

Fanny  had  borne  it  with  desperate  courage. 
She  told  herself  that  she  could  well  enough  en 
dure  this  latest  pang.  It  could  not  go  so  deep  as 
the  former  thrusts.  Her  heart  had  grown  accus 
tomed  to  stabs ;  it  must  have  hardened  somewhat. 

But  he  meant  to  marry  Helen  Devereux  and 
her  millions.  Letters  from  London  during  the 
past  season  had  told  Fanny  of  his  renewed  devo 
tion  in  that  quarter.  It  was  this  fact  which  hurt 
the  most.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  give  him 
up  to  any  woman ;  but,  of  all  women,  that  it 
should  be  Helen  Devereux  who  won  the  prize ! 
It  drove  Fanny  "past  her  patience,"  to  use  poor 
Queen  Katharine's  pathetic  complaint. 

"  I'm  not  a  good  woman,"  she  said  to  herself; 
"I  dare  say  I  shall  grow  worse,  but  every  thing 
has  been  against  me — always — and  I'll  not  try  to 
do  right ;  I'll  never  try  again — never !" 

She  staid  in  her  room  until  Antoinette  appear 
ed  with  the  information  that  dinner  was  ready. 

"But  monsieur  is  not  entered,  "Antoinette  ex 
plained.  "The  poor  madame  says  she  is  quite 
faint — it  is  a  half-hour  past  the  time." 

"  He  does  not  dine  at  home — I  had  forgotten 
it," said  Fanny.  "Tell  Paul  to  serve  the  soup 
at  once." 

She  walked  on  into  the  salon ;  the  Tortoise  sat 
buried  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  fire.  She  wanted 
a  fire  in  July,  and  always  sat  as  close  to  the  fend 
er  as  she  could  get ;  indeed,  had  more  than  once 
been  rescued  from  a  dreadful  death  by  Fanny's 
assistance.  Catarrh  and  constant  snuff-taking 
had  left  her  nose  useless,  except  as  a  dust-hole  ; 
she  might  have  burned  up  without  her  olfactory 
organs  telling  her  there  was  any  thing  the  mat 
ter. 

"I'm  so  hungry,"  she  said,  plaintively,  as  Fan 
ny  appeared. 

"Well,  go  into  the  salle  a  manger.  I  have 
told  them  to  serve  dinner,"  her  niece  replied. 

"But  don't  you  think  St.  Simon  will  mind  ?" 

"  Oh,  he's  not  coming  home — I  shouldn't  wait 
if  he  was,"  returned  Fanny,  carelessly.  "He 
must  learn  to  be  punctual." 


"I  feel  quite  faint,"  moaned  the  Tortoise. 
"I've  taken  nothing  since  breakfast,  only  a  bit 
of  cake  and  a  glass  of  my  bitters  at  three  o'clock, 
and  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  biscuit  at  five." 

It  was  seven  now ;  Fanny  hastened  to  lead  her 
into  the  dining-room,  lest  she  should  perish  of 
inanition. 

"That's  my  chief  trouble," said  the  Tortoise, 
as  she  crumbled  into  her  seat  at  table.  The  ex 
pression  is  absurd,  but  it  is  the  only  one  that  an 
swers.  She  seemed  to  go  to  bits  whenever  she  sat 
down,  and  each  time  she  rose  she  dropped  some 
portion  of  her  apparel — any  thing  from  a  shawl 
to  a  garter. 

No  matter  how  carefully  she  was  dressed,  Fan 
ny  herself  might  superintend  the  operation,  and 
tie  and  pin  in  every  direction.  The  instant  the 
Tortoise  moved,  she  began  to  come  apart ;  and  at 
the  most  unexpected  moments,  in  company  or 
not,  could  be  heard  the  plaintive  appeal, 

"  Oh !  please  put  me  together,  Fanny ;  I'm  all 
wrong,  somehow ! " 

"What  is  your  chief  trouble,  T.  ?"  inquired 
Fanny.  She  had  long  before  taken  up  the  habit 
of  addressing  her  thus,  but  the  Tortoise  never 
asked  why. 

"Quick  digestion,"  returned  she. 

"  I  have  often  heard  complaints  of  slow  diges 
tion." 

"  No  ;  that's  not  what  ails  me.  My  stomach 
is  like  a  sieve  !  I'm  sure  if  I  could  take  chloro 
form  or  something,  and  have  a  new  lining  put  in, 
I  should  think  it  might  be  managed  ?" 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  replied  Fanny,  thinking 
how  amused  St.  Simon  would  be  at  this  new  in 
spiration.  "  We  are  to  have  a  dinner-party  on 
Thursday,  T." 

"Are  we?  I  remember  now — St.  Simon  said 
something — but  I  thought  it  was  we  were  invited 
out." 

"No,  no;  we  are  the  entertainers.  I  have 
ordered  you  a  new  gray  satin  dress,  trimmed 
with  white  lace — you'll  be  very  gorgeous." 

"I  hope  the  pins  won't  stick  into  me,'' sighed 
the  Tortoise;  "they  always  do.  I  declare, 
sometimes  I  think  I  must  be  a  cushion  without 
knowing  it." 

"There  was  once  a  man  who  was  a  tea-pot," 
said  Fanny. 

"Was  there,  really ?" 

"Well,  he  thought  himself  one,  and  was  dread 
fully  afraid  he  should  get  broken." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  should  think  so!  I  never 
knew  a  man  that  was  a  tea-pot,"  said  the  Tor 
toise,  meditatively ;  "but  lor!  how  afraid  he 
would  be,  with  servants  so  careless ;  but,  then,  it's 
a  joke." 

"A  poor  joke  to  him,"  said  Fanny,  eating  her 
matelote  quietly,  and  thinking  how  nice  it  was  to 
have  a  good  dinner  once  more,  all  the  while  that 
Talbot  Castlemaine's  image  stared  at  her  from  a 
silver  dish-cover,  and  she  wondered  drearily  if 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


21 


some  principle  of  evil  ruled  the  universe,  and  took 
a  special  pleasure  in  tormenting  her. 

She  had  a  sensuous  love  for  beautiful  things ; 
she  was  like  St.  Simon  in  that.  She  adored  ease 
and  luxury,  but,  like  him,  she  could  support  re 
verses  with  Spartan  fortitude.  The  two  were 
often  as  gay  eating  cold  meat  and  salad  in  a 
stuffy  chamber  au  cinquieme  in  some  dull  Ger 
man  town  as  ever  they  had  been  when  dining  in 
state  off  the  delicacies  of  the  season,  though  they 
did  this  whenever  they  could,  and  thought  very 
little  at  whose  cost  it  might  be. 

"Am  I  to  say  St.  Simon  has  been  in  America  ?" 
asked  the  Tortoise,  presently. 

"Of  course,  if  you  like — why  not,  T.  ?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know.  Sometimes  I'm  not  to 
tell  things — luckily,  I  forget,  anyway.  "But," 
dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper, "  where  do  you 
think  he  went  ?" 

"To  America,  T." 

"  Oh,  but  he  said  he  had  been  there, "returned 
the  Tortoise,  as  if  the  assertion  on  his  part  was 
proof  positive  that  in  whatever  direction  he  had 
journeyed,  Columbia  could  not  have  been  the 
bourn. 

Here  was  another  story  with  which  to  amuse 
St.  Simon.  He  would  be  highly  diverted  by  the 
Tortoise's  perspicacity. 

"He really  did  go," said  Fanny.  " Odd  as  it 
seems,  he  told  the  truth  word  for  word." 

"Oh,  it's  not  that ;  I  didn't  mean  that." 

"  He  tells  lies  ?"  asked  Fanny,  calmly. 

"Parables,  Fanny;  he  told  me  when  we  were 
first  married  to  call  them  parables,  and  I  never 
forgot.  Do  you  know  I  always  recollect  the 
word  by  thinking  of  pirate  ?  I  can't  tell  how, 
but  I  do." 

While  Fanny  smiled  in  good-natured  contempt, 
she  was  wondering  what  the  poor  Tortoise  had 
been  like  when  she  was  young,  and  first  married 
to  St.  Simon.  Fanny  had  heard  that  she  was  very 
pretty,  and  rather  a  bright  girl.  She  must  have 
suffered  in  her  way,  for  Fanny  knew  that  St.  Si 
mon's  polish  was  only  an  enamel ;  there  was  a 
ruthless  savage  under,  when  roused.  Many  wom 
en  would  have  left  him,  others  would  have  be 
come  vixens.  The  Tortoise  had  allowed  herself 
to  be  flattened  gradually  under  his  iron  hand ; 
had  lived  a  life  of  repression  and  fear,  for  she  was 
afraid  of  him,  until  such  mind  as  she  had  left  was 
chaotic  as  a  rag-bag. 

"Fanny,"  she  said,  presently,  after  having  de 
voured  her  matelote  and  partaken  heartily  of  the 
delicate  entree,  and  made  her  fingers  so  hopeless 
ly  greasy  that  her  niece  was  obliged  to  leave  her 
seat  and  rub  them  with  a  napkin. 

"  Well,  T.  ?" 

"It's  nice  to  be  rich;  I  wish  we  could  stay 
so." 

"Do  you,  indeed!" 

"Yes ;  but  we  never  do.  It's  like — what  is  it 
like  ?  Living  on  a  staircase  :  one  day  at  the  top 


and  the  next  at  the  bottom,"  said  the  Tortoise, 
pulling  her  snuff-box  out  of  her  pocket  (forget 
ting  where  she  was),  and  thrusting  it  hastily  back 
as  she  caught  Fanny's  eye. 

"A  very  good  comparison,  T. !  But  perhaps 
now  we  shall  stay  at  the  top.  After  all,  you  were 
very  comfortable  this  summer." 

"Yes.  I  wish  Paul  would  hurry  with  the  oth 
er  course  ;  my  digestion  is  so  quick." 

It  was  true  that  Fanny  had  made  her  comfort 
able;  however  spare  her  own  dinner,  there  was 
always  some  dainty  dish  and  a  bottle  of  good 
wine  for  the  poor  Tortoise.  Fanny  hated  to  see 
any  creature  suffer,  as  much,  perhaps,  from  a  self 
ish  dread  as  any  thing  else. 

"Fanny,"  said  the  Tortoise  again. 

"Yes,  T." 

"Do  you  think  I  might  go  and  stand  in  the 
passage  a  moment?"  She  asked  the  question 
diffidently,  and  Fanny  knew  that  her  fingers  were 
on  the  snuff-box,  which  she  fondly  believed  a  pro 
found  secret. 

"No,  you  will  catch  cold;  you  can  sneeze 
after  dinner,"  she  said,  for  she  gratified  the  old 
soul  by  never  mentioning  the  snuff-taking  pro 
clivities  under  any  other  name.  "I  think  you 
had  better  wait." 

"Perhaps  I  had,"  sighed  the  Tortoise,  and  al 
lowed  the  tabatiere  to  drop  back  into  the  recesses 
of  her  pocket. 

Fortunately  Paul  appeared  at  this  instant  with 
another  dish,  and  she  forgot  her  longing  in  a 
laudable  desire  to  give  her  active  digestive  organs 
more  work. 

After  dinner  the  Tortoise  dozed  in  her  chair, 
occasionally  waking  long  enough  to  imbibe  n 
pinch  of  snuff  with  an  air  of  great  mystery.  Fan 
ny  sat  at  the  piano,  and  played  snatches  from  op 
eras  in  a  brilliant  way,  sung  now  and  then  averse, 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  thinking  of  Tal- 
bot  Castlemaine's  eyes,  of  Helen  Devereux,  of 
her  own  thwarted,  blighted  existence ;  yet  all  the 
while  conscious  of  a  certain  gratification  in  her 
luxuriant  surroundings  —  in  the  glimpses  she 
caught  of  herself  in  the  mirrors,  her  face  and  fig 
ure  admirably  set  off  by  her  becoming  new  attire. 
"After  all,"  she  thought, "  if  one  must  be  miser 
able,  there's  a  little  comfort  in  being  so  in  a  nice 
dress  and  a  handsome  room.  I  don't  suppose  I 
should  be  wretched  if  I  had  any  thing  to  do,  but 
I  haven't,  and  shouldn't  know  how  to  do  it  if  I 
had." 

St.  Simon  came  in  rather  early,  to  Fanny's  as 
tonishment.  Nothing  had  ever  puzzled  her  so 
much  as  this  rigid  assumption  of  respectability 
on  his  part. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  dull,"  said  he ;  "  and 
it  sounds  well  to  say  that  I  come  home  at  eleven. " 

"It's  tiresome  to  be  respectable,"  yawned 
Fanny. 

"Don't  corrupt  my  nascent  morality  by  such 
sentiments, "said  St.  Simon. 


22 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"I  think  the  jolliest  month  I  remember  was 
that  at  Chaudefontaine  three  years  ago,"  pursued 
Fanny ;  "  don't  you  recollect  ?" 

He  nodded,  and  rolled  himself  a  cigarette. 

"  We  were  awfully  under  a  cloud,  and  you 
had  dreadful  luck  at  the  tables.  But  there  were 
no  Americans,  no  English — nobody  that  wasn't 
immoral  and  improper !  Was  it  not  fun  ?" 

"Yes ;  what  larks  our  suppers  were!" 

"With  that  little  actress,  and  old  De  Farville, 
and  Madame  de  Sansen ;  I  wonder  what's  be 
come  of  them  all." 

"My  dear,  we're  respectable  now !" 

"Oh,  make  me  a  cigarette,  and  let's  have 
some  sherry-and-soda ;  I'm  sick  of  myself." 

"How  peacefully  the  Tortoise  sleeps!"  said 
St.  Simon,  handing  her  the  cigarette  he  had  just 
made.  "You  think  I'm  not  a  good  man;  but 
only  fancy,  if  I  had  murdered  her  I  might  have 
married  a  fortune  twenty  times." 

"I  wonder  you  never  did,"  said  Fanny;  "it 
shows  that  there  are  some  temptations  you  can 
resist." 

"I  never  thought  seriously  of  it  but  once," he 
continued,  as  he  rang  the  bell.  "That  was 
years  ago — just  before  I  went  to  America  for 
you.  I  was  awfully  down ;  I  had  left  the  Tor 
toise  at  Brussels,  and  had  gone  to  Hamburg. 
There  was  a  rich  widow  who  flung  herself  straight 
at  my  head,  and  told  me — sherry-  and  -soda." 
This  last  addressed  to  Paul,  who  appeared  in 
answer  to  his  master's  summons. 

"  What  did  she  say  after  ?"  asked  Fanny. 

"  I  was  the  only  man  she  ever  cared  for ;  that 
was  the  third  time  I'd  seen  her.  Then  some 
fool  let  out  that  I  was  married.  I  assure  you  I 
was  strongly  tempted  to  go  back  and  help  the 
Tortoise  develop  into  an  angel." 

"You  said  you  wanted  Helen  Devereux's  ad 
dress,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Have  you  found  it  ?"  he  inquired,  rather  ea 
gerly. 

"She's  in  Devonshire:  must  be  visiting  Ma 
rian  Payne.  I've  the  name  of  the  place  some 
where." 

"You  always  find  out  things  for  me.  I 
couldn't  get  on  without  you,  Fail." 

"  Then  there's  no  danger  of  my  finding  my 
self  murdered  in  my  sleep  at  present." 

"No ;  for  the  time  you  may  slumber  tranquil 
ly;  but  who  told  you  the  Devereux's  wherea 
bouts?" 

"  Talbot  Castlemaine,"  she  replied,  flinging  the 
end  of  her  cigarette  into  the  fire. 

"Where  on  earth  did  he  spring  from?" 

"  Out  of  it,  perhaps.  I  met  him  in  the  street. 
There's  Paul  with  the  drinkables.  I'm  parched 
with  thirst." 

St.  Simon  stood  and  looked  full  at  her  for  an 
instant ;  a  glance,  half  curious,  half  quizzical. 

"Romances  are  pretty  things, "said  he. 

"Sherry-and-soda  is  better,"  she  replied; 


"give  me  some,  if  you  please,  and  —  St.  Si 
mon  ! " 

He  stopped  on  his  way  to  the  table  and  looked 
back  at  her ;  she  had  called  his  name  in  a  voice 
suddenly  haughty  and  hard. 

"  Miss  St.  Simon !"  said  he. 

"  If  you  ever  look  at  me  like  that  again  when 
I  mention  Talbot  Castlemaine's  name,  I'll  give 
you  reason  to  regret  it." 

He  went  up  to  the  table,  mixed  the  sherry-and- 
soda,  filled  a  glass  for  himself,  and  returned  to 
the  hearth  with  both  tumblers  in  his  hands. 

"Accept,"  said  he;  "forgive  and  forget.  I 
want  you  to  be  in  your  very  best  temper  for  the 
next  two  months." 

"A  perfect  eternity,"  cried  Fanny,  gayly. 

They  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  sipped  their 
cooling  draughts,  while  the  Tortoise  slumbered 
quietly ;  at  intervals  indulging  in  a  little  snore 
which  sounded  like  "Peck!  peck!"  but  both 
were  too  much  accustomed  to  notice. 

"So  you  expect  Gregory  Alleyne  in  Paris," 
said  Fanny. 

"  Yes,  early  next  month.  Ah!  there's  a  fort 
une,  Fan,  if  you  could  only  make  up  your  mind 
to  catch  it." 

"I  am  sleepy,"  said  she :  "I  shall  go  to  bed." 

She  rose  and  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  fend 
er,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  at  her  uncle. 

"St.  Simon," said  she,  "I  have  made  up  my 
mind.  I  mean  to  marry  that  man." 

"A  very  sensible  resolution.  If  you  say  you'll 
do  it,  I  know  you  will.  You  might  have  settled 
yourself  half  a  dozen  times,  if  you  had  not  given 
way  to  your  caprices." 

"  Don't  go  over  that." 

"You  are  right;  there's  never  the  least  good 
in  raking  up  the  past.  But  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  you  well  married,  Fanny." 

"A  very  proper  speech — sounds  like  the  pere 
noble!" laughed  she.  "Upon  my  word,  St.  Si 
mon,  you  do  a  bit  of  paternal  solicitude  in  the 
neatest  fashion." 

"Don't  discourage  me  by  sneering  at  my  ef 
forts,"  he  said,  laughing  too.  "  Gregory  Alleyne 
is  among  the  richest  men  in  America  at  this 
present;  he's  a  very  good  fellow  too  —  a  little 
heavy  on  hand,  a  little  overstrained  in  his  no 
tions  ;  for  instance,  you  mustn't  smoke  a  cigar 
ette  before  him.'' 

"I'll  engage  to  make  him  put  up  with  what 
ever  I  please  to  do,"  said  Fanny. 

"  I've  no  doubt  he'll  fall  helplessly  enough  in 
love,  if  you  choose  to  ensorceler  him." 

"I  doubt  it,  then,  and  I  have  my  reasons; 
but  I  shall  marry  him  all  the  same." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?"  asked  St.  Simon. 
"But  it's  no  particular  good  to  have  a  husband 
who  is  in  love ;  the  money  is  the  great  thing." 

"I  would  marry  him  if  he  hadn't  it," Fanny 
exclaimed. 

"  Good  heavens !"  cried  St.  Simon,  aghast. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


23 


"You  say  he  is  a  good  man  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  mean  slow  and  moral." 

"If  he  were  the  worst  man  that  ever  lived,  I'd 
marry  him,"  said  Fanny,  tapping  her  foot  slowly 
on  the  fender  as  she  spoke. 

"Well,  this  passes  my  comprehension!"  ex 
claimed  St.  Simon,  putting  on  his  eyeglass  to 
study  her  face. 

She  had  turned  now  so  that  the  light  fell  full 
upon  her  features  ;  her  eyes  hlazed  with  a  sombre 
fire ;  a  cruel  smile  flitted  across  her  lips. 

"Yes,  this  passes  my  comprehension,"  re 
peated  St.  Simon. 

"Does  it?"  she  asked. 

"A  man  you  never  set  eyes  on!  My  dear 
Fanny,  you  don't  often  talk  for  effect  unless 
there  is  something  to  be  gained  by  it ;  but  really 
it  does  seem  to  me  that  just  now  you  are  only 
airing  your  vocabulary  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
me  open  my  eyes." 

"I  am  doing  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  never 
spoke  more  seriously  in  my  life.  I  shall  marry 
Gregory  Alleyne,  whether  he  will  or  not.  I?d 
do  it  if  he  were  a  poor  man  instead  of  a  rich  one. 
I'd  do  it  if  he  were  likely  to  prove  my  tyrant  in 
stead  of  my  slave." 

She  was  in  earnest ;  he  had  only  to  look  in 
her  face  to  be  certain  of  that. 

"I  never  expected  again  to  feel  the  sensation 
of  surprise,"  murmured  St.  Simon.  "For  mer 
cy's  sake,  unfold  the  mystery !" 

"Because  Helen  Devereux  loves  him  ;  because 
she  was  engaged  to  him  once ;  because  she  is  the 
sort  of  idiotic  womau  who  can  never  care  but 
for  one  man  ;  because  for  me  to  marry  him  will 
wring  her  heart — be  a  daily  and  hourly  torture 
to  her  if  she  should  live  a  hundred  years — that's 
why  I  mean  to  marry  Gregory  Alleyne." 

She  had  spoken  in  the  same  slow,  repressed 
voice,  still  tapping  the  fender  with  her  foot.  St. 
Simon  leaned  back  and  stared  in  her  face,  more 
astonished  by  her  speech  and  manner  than  he 
had  been  at  any  thing  in  ten  years. 

"Good-night,"  said  she,  abruptly.  "Take 
my  word  for  it,  I  mean  what  I  say,  and  I  shall 
do  it." 

She  passed  quietly  out  of  the  room,  and  left 
St.  Simon  to  his  meditations. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CASTING    THE     NET. 

IT  was  eight  o'clock  on  Thursday  evening. 
St.  Simon's  guests  began  to  make  their  appear 
ance  singly,  or  by  pairs,  or  family  trios,  in  the 
pretty  salon  where  he  and  his  niece  awaited 
them.  Fanny  had  a  genius,  as  she  had  in  many 
other  things,  for  giving  furnished  apartments  a 
look  at  once  home-like  and  picturesque.  In  this 
instance  she  had  found  good  material  to  work 


upon,  for  the  room  was  well-shaped,  the  furniture 
admirably  selected,  and  the  portieres  at  the  end 
afforded  glimpses  of  a  second  and  still  larger  sa 
lon,  with  a  charming  boudoir  beyond  that. 

Naturally  the  Tortoise  was  also  present ;  but 
she  never  received  any  callers,  or  entertained  them 
after  they  were  received.  She  talked  a  good 
deal  when  she  could  keep  awake ;  but  during  the 
first  half  hour  in  company  she  was  always  too 
much  occupied  in  adjusting  stray  pins  which  in 
sisted  on  pricking  her  (pins  were  the  bane  of  the 
Tortoise's  life ;  and  if  she  had  not  been  the 
sweetest-tempered  woman  in  the  world,  she  would 
have  daily  cursed  their  inventor),  to  pay  more 
than  a  vague  attention  to  aught  besides. 

Enter  two  or  three  men  from  America — all  of 
them  people  whom  St.  Simon  meant  to  catch  in 
his  net.  Enter  several  fathers  of  families  with 
their  spouses,  ccnveying  under  their  wings  daugh 
ters  who  cooed  like  doves.  Enter  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Pattaker — the  latter  a  notable  person  in  the  col 
ony;  in  fact,  the  head  and  front  of  that  impor 
tant  body.  Whomsoever  Mrs.  Pattaker  willed  to 
' '  take  up  "  was  joyfully  accepted  by  the  whole 
band.  Whomsoever  Mrs.  Pattaker  willed  to 
fling  against  the  stones  was  immediately  tram 
pled  under  foot,  or  obliged  to  get  out  of  the  way. 

St.  Simon,  like  the  crafty  old  fisherman  he 
was,  caught  her  in  his  net  with  little  trouble. 
Soon  after  his  arrival,  he  held  a  long,  confiden 
tial  interview  with  her,  and  made  her  a  present 
of  a  number  of  shares  of  the  mining  stock.  Mrs. 
Pattaker  was  a  very  rich  woman ;  so  of  course 
she  was  greedy  for  more.  St.  Simon  had  gained 
a  powerful  ally ;  she  would  sound  his  trumpet, 
give  parties,  help  him  to  catch  gudgeons  and 
whales. 

Mrs.  Pattaker  had  been  a  beauty;  she  was 
not  so  any  longer,  but  she  still  believed  herself  to 
be,  and  that  answered  every  purpose  where  she 
was  concerned.  Mrs.  Pattaker's  grandfather 
had  been  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence,  and  she  overwhelmed  her  world 
by  the  awful  majesty  of  that  dread  phantom. 

Mrs.  Pattaker's  daughter  had  married  a  French 
duke  (who  pulled  her  hair  regularly  or  irregular 
ly  once  a  week) ;  therefore  Mrs.  Pattaker  regard 
ed  herself  as  a  sort  of  duchess  dowager.  She 
was  intensely  aristocratic,  and  talked  as  inces 
santly  about  blood  as  if  she  had  been  a  fabricator 
of  black  puddings.  She  was  intensely  Republic 
an  also,  principally  on  account  of  the  Signer, 
and  fluttered  the  Star-spangled  Banner  a  great 
deal,  frequently  announcing  her  readiness  to  die 
wrapped  amidst  its  folds. 

The  anomaly  is  not  uncommon.;  soviet  no  per 
son,  unfamiliar  with  the  habits  of  Americans 
whose  grandfathers  signed  the  Declaration,  and 
whose  daughters  have  wedded  titles,  venture  to 
pronounce  it  unnatural. 

Mr.  Pattaker  was— Mrs.  Pattaker's  husband ; 
sufficient  honor  for  one  man.  So,  having  an- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


nounced  the  fact,  I  need  say  no  more  about  him 
— nobody  ever  did. 

Enter  Colonel  Judd,  from  the  Far  West,  re 
sembling,  on  account  of  the  length  of  his  legs, 
a  pair  of  tailor's  shears ;  informing  whomsoever 
would  listen,  in  a  fine  nasal  accent,  that  he  had 
worked  his  way  up  from  a  shoe-maker's  bench ; 
quoting  the  Latin  proverb  about  the  propriety 
of  one  of  that  craft  never  going  beyond  his  last, 
and-  adding  (people  who  were  acquainted  with 
him  knew  where  the  laugh  came  in)  that  his 
last  was  realizing  half  a  million  from  Brazilian 
bonds. 

Enter  Sir  John  Dudgeon,  looking  as  if  he  had 
smelled  something  unpleasant  in  his  early  youth, 
and  had  never  since  recovered  his  equanimity. 
Enter,  beside  him,  Lady  Dudgeon,  in  a  green 
dress  with  a  blue  convolvulus  wreath,  wearing 
also  a  conscious,  deprecating  expression  of  coun 
tenance,  as  though  fearful  she  were  the  odor 
which  had  disturbed  Sir  John's  olfactories,  and 
lifted  his  proboscis  out  of  the  proper  angle. 

Enter  Miss  Langois ;  French  by  parentage, 
American  by  birth  and  education.  The  skinni 
est  old  maid  in  Europe ;  the  readiest  to  do  and 
say  obliging  things  of  and  for  people :  it  was  her 
stock  in  trade.  Every  body  you  could  mention, 
from  the  Khan  of  Tartary  to  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  was  Miss  Langois's  bosom  friend. 
She  found  even  good  words  to  speak  of  her  mar 
ried  sisters,  who  had  all  the  flesh  and  all  the 
money  she  lacked,  who  tyrannized  over  her,  and 
dressed  her  in  their  cast-off  garments.  She  knew 
the  whole  world,  and  went  everywhere;  her 
tongue  would  be  of  service  to  St.  Simon,  there 
fore  he  bore  the  sight  of  her  elbows  with  forti 
tude. 

Enter  a  Gallic  marquis,  who  wished  to  pur 
chase  a  Yankee  heiress  ;  aged  five-and-thirty  to 
count  by  years,  but  centuries  old  if  one  counted 
by  his  familiarity  with  vice. 

Immediately  after,  Miss  Paola  Walton  and  her 
mamma ;  Miss  Paola  celebrated  for  sighing  in 
the  marquis's  wake,  and  informing  her  friends  in 
strict  confidence  that  she  and  the  noble  gentle 
man  were  a  modern  type  of  Romeo  and  Juliet — 
only  separated  by  money,  or  the  lack  of  it,  in 
stead  of  a  family  feud.  After  looking  at  her, 
nobody  felt  inclined  to  dispute  her  right  to  be 
ing  the  heroine  of  a  drama,  for  she  was  frail  and 
weedy  enough  to  have  stood  for  a  model  of  Ju 
liet  just  emerged  from  the  tomb. 

Enter  Mrs.  Gerard  and  Mrs.  Dunstable — two 
American  sisters — each  chaperoning  the  other. 
They  are  so  well  known  in  every  Continental 
city  that  it  seems  a  waste  of  time  to  dwell  upon 
them,  though  they  deserve — and  get  wherever 
they  go — more  than  a  passing  mention. 

Enter  a  variety  of  really  charming  and  well- 
bred  people,  whom,  in  accordance  with  the  habit 
of  story-writers  in  general,  I  shall  not  describe. 
The  dear  reading  public  prefers  to  hear  about 


persons  at  whom  they  can  laugh,  and  decide 
which  group  among  their  circle  of  acquaintance 
the  author  has  meant  to  depict. 

Enter  more  and  more  guests ;  among  the  last 
a  pleasant  young  fellow  with  whom  St.  Simon 
had  formed  acquaintance  on  the  steamer.  This 
was  Roland  Spencer,  aged  two -and -twenty; 
handsome,  clever,  rich ;  visiting  Europe  for  the 
first  time,  and  fuller  of  dreams  and  illusions  than 
one  often  finds  a  young  man  in  our  century.  He 
looked  at  Fanny  St.  Simon,  who  was  bewilder 
ing  in  a  maize-colored  silk  with  a  tulle  tunic, 
and  straightway  transformed  her  into  an  angel, 
and  fell  helplessly,  idiotically,  in  love. 

Every  body  had  arrived  now ;  so  .St.  Simon  led 
the  way  toward  the  dining-room,  with  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  on  his  arm.  Lady  Dudgeon  might  be  a 
baronet's  wife,  but  Mrs.  Pattaker  always  ranked 
next  to  princesses  of  the  blood. 

Foolish  Roland  Spencer  had  the  bliss  of  con 
ducting  Fanny,  and  the  touch  of  her  gloved  fin 
gers  on  his  coat-sleeve  riveted  and  locked  the 
fetters  which  her  first  glance  had  thrown  about 
him. 

"My  uncle  tells  me  you  have  come  over  to 
remain  for  several  years,"  were  among  her  first 
words,  spoken  because  she  must  talk.  Thinking 
him  shy,  she  good-naturedly  took  the  initiative 
in  the  conversation. 

"Yes;  I  want  to  see  Europe  thoroughly,  and 
go  to  the  East,"  he  answered,  feeling  all  the 
while  as  if  he  walked  on  air,  and  dizzy  with  the 
faint  odor  of  Parma  violets  which  hung  about 
her. 

"Then  you'll  be  blind,"  said  Fanny  ;  "every 
body  who  goes  to  Egypt  gets — oh,  something 
with  a  long  name.  You'll  have  to  come  back, 
and  be  led  up  and  down  by  a  dog.  I  always 
thought  I  should  like  that !  There's  a  spaniel  I 
see  every  day  in  the  Champs  Elysees  that  walks 
so  beautifully  on  his  hind  legs,  and  carries  a  bas 
ket  in  his  mouth ;  but  you  mustn't  drop  sous  in 
it,  because  the  spaniel's  master  is  a  cheat." 

"  I'll  save  my  sous  to  buy  the  dog  and  basket 
against  ophthalmia  overtakes  me,"  said  he. 

"  I  do  believe  he's  not  a  fool,"  thought  Fanny, 
and  glanced  at  him ;  she  had  not  before  taken 
the  trouble.  That  head  certainly  did  not  be 
long  to  a  simpleton ;  there  were  ideality  and  all 
the  imaginative  bumps  finely  developed.  Miss 
St.  Simon  was  phrenological  enough  to  see  this. 
"How  glibly  you  speak  that  long  word,"  she 
continued  aloud.  "Are  you  awfully  wise  and 
learned  ?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  he,  laughing. 

"Then  I'll  not  hate  you  immediately.  Do 
you  know  Mrs.  Pattaker  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  my  mother  was  an  old  friend  of 
hers." 

"Then  you  will  be  allowed  to  live!  If  you 
did  not  know  Mrs.  Pattaker,  the  police  would 
drive  you  out  of  Paris  in  twenty-four  hours! 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


25 


They  have  an  order  to  banish  all  Americans 
who  don't  know  her.  I'm  not  sure  whether  it's 
her  command  or  that  of  President  Thiers,  hut  it's 
the  law.  I'm  horribly  afraid  of  Mrs.  Pattaker ! 
I  stepped  on  her  little  dog's  tail  once,  and  did 
not  dare  come  back  to  France  for  six  months." 

Roland  Spencer  thought  this  nonsensical  trash 
the  wittiest  talk  he  had  ever  heard,  and  laughed 
so  heartily,  as  they  were  taking  their  seats,  that 
he  attracted  Mrs.  Pattaker's  attention,  and  she 
called  from  her  end  of  the  table, 

"Oh,  you  bad  boy !  Remind  me  to  scold  you 
for  not  coining  to  see  me  this  morning.  I  had 
twenty  things  for  you  to  do." 

Mrs.  Pattaker  always  had  twenty  things  for 
each  of  her  friends  to  do,  but  this  patronizing 
sweetness  toward  Roland  established  his  claims 
to  consideration  at  once.  Every  acquaintance 
of  Mrs.  Pattaker's  knew  the  different  inflections 
of  her  voice,  and  her  tone  proved  that  Mr.  Spen 
cer  was  a  man  to  cultivate :  he  must  have  both 
money  and  family.  People  regarded  him  with 
favor ;  the  young  women  discovered  that  he  was 
very  handsome.  Sir  John  Dudgeon  said,  in  his 
puffy,  wheezy  voice, 

"You're  a  fortunate  man,  sir — a  very  fortu 
nate  man !" 

Colonel  Judd  said, 

"You'll  not  need  to  go  beyond  your  last — ha, 
ha  —  little  joke  of  mine  —  ever  hear  it,  Lady 
Dudgeon  ?" 

Whether  she  had  or  not,  Mrs.  Pattaker  had 
no  mind  to  listen  to  it  now,  so  she  hastened  to 
make  her  voice  heard. 

"Marquis,"  she  said,  "  His  Majesty  was  suffer 
ing  the  day  before  yesterday — no,  it  was  on  Sun 
day — from  a  cold  in  the  head." 

By  His  Majesty  she  means  the  Count  of  Cham- 
bord.  Formerly  Mrs.  Pattaker  had  worshiped  at 
the  shrine  of  the  Bonapartes ;  but  since  the  fall 
of  the  empire,  she  had  developed  into  a  Legiti 
mist,  announced  her  intention  of  putting  on 
mourning  when  the  anniversary  of  the  death 
of  Louis  XVI.  should  arrive,  after  the  habit  of 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  and  had  displaced 
the  bust  of  the  empress  in  her  salon  by  a  por 
trait  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

"A  cold,  had  he  ?"  said  the  marquis,  as  indif 
ferently  as  he  dared  answer  a  giver  of  such  din 
ners  as  Mrs.  Pattaker  provided. 

Every  body  became  greatly  excited  about  His 
Majesty's  ailment,  and  even  the  Tortoise  was 
heard  to  murmur  something  in  regard  to  the 
virtues  of  flaxseed  tea. 

"<9  le  drapeau  blanc  !"  cried  Mrs.  Pattaker, 
enthusiastically. 

"  'Sh !  'sh !"  This  from  Miss  Langois  to  some 
unfortunate  who  had  tried  to  speak. 

It  was  supposed  that  Mrs.  Pattaker  was  about 
to  be  eloquent.  She  apparently  thought  so  her 
self,  for  she  struck  the  famous  attitude — the  fam 
ily  attitude — that  in  which  Stuart  painted  old 


John  (never  mind  who)  the  Signer.  But  the 
burst  was  not  forthcoming ;  so  after  waiting  an 
instant,  and  keeping  every  body  else  waiting, 
Mrs.  Pattaker  was  obliged  to  relinquish  the  pose, 
and  content  herself  with  sighing,  "6>  le  drapeau 
blanc !"  ' 

"Yes,  indeed — the  drappy  blanche!"  echoed 
Colonel  Judd. 

Sir  John  Dudgeon,  disgusted  with  such  mu 
tilation  of  the  soft  syllables,  felt  it  his  duty  to 
give  the  proper  pronunciation  for  the  colonel's 
benefit,  so  he  repeated, 

"Oh,  the  draup  blaunk  !" 

And  Miss  Langois,  who  had  a  parrot-like  pro 
pensity  for  echoing  whatever  she  heard,  mur 
mured, 

"Oh,  the  drop — " 

But  could  get  no  further,  for  she  saw  Mrs. 
Pattaker's  eye  upon  her.  By  this  time,  Roland 
Spencer  was  nearly  in  a  fit  from  the  effort  to  re 
press  his  laughter,  and  wicked  Fanny  added  to 
his  sufferings  by  sundry  speeches  unheard  by 
any  body  else. 

"You  find  Paris  so  dull  that  you  mean  to  run 
away  to  Italy  for  the  winter, "she  said,  when  he 
had  regained  his  composure.  "My  uncle  told 
me.  I  think  it's  wicked  of  you  to  desert  us." 

She  smiled  at  him  for  the  first  time  as  she 
spoke,  and  Roland  Spencer  went  straight  into 
paradise.  I  should  say  that  Saint  Augustine 
himself  could  not  have  resisted  Fanny  St.  Si 
mon's  smile. 

As  for  Roland,  his  resolution  was  taken  from 
that  moment ;  a  legion  of  fiery  dragons  should 
not  force  him  away. 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind," he  answered, 
coloring.  He  was  still  capable  of  a  blush,  this 
young  man ! 

"Ah,  then,  perhaps  we  shall  persuade  you  to 
stay,"  said  she,  and  smiled  again  straight  in  his 
eyes  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  red  come  into 
|  his  cheeks  once  more.  She  considered  him  a 
mere  boy — at  least  a  thousand  years  younger 
than  herself.  "I  shall  have  to  beg  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  to  lay  her  commands  upon  you ;  nobody 
ever  disobeys  her." 

"I  think  I'd  rather  stay  because  you  per 
suaded  me,"  said  he,  courageously;  and  the 
speech  was  not  bad  for  a  beginner. 

"I  shall  see  how  you  behave  ;  if  you  are  very 
attentive  and  devoted,  and  help  me  tease  Mrs. 
Pattaker,  perhaps  I  shall  try  my  powers,"  she  re 
plied,  and  gave  him  a  third  smile.  After  that, 
Roland  needed  no  dinner,  and  was  more  thor 
oughly  intoxicated  than  if  he  had  finished  a  bot 
tle  of  Champagne.  Poor  boy;  he  could  not 
know  that  St.  Simon  had  said  to  his  niece, 

"I  depend  on  you  to  keep  the  young  fellow 
here ;  he  may  be  very  useful ;  just  turn  his  head 
a  bit." 

"  So  you  don't  like  Mrs.  Pattaker,"  Roland 
said. 


26 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"Bless  me,  I  shouldn't  venture  to!  I  bow 
meekly  before  her ;  that  is  all  she  asks. " 

Fanny  St.  Simon  did  not  look  in  the  least  like 
a  woman  who  would  bow  meekly  before  any  hu 
man  being,  and  he  told  her  so,  only  he  rendered 
the  words  complimentary,  and  meant  them  to  be. 

"But  you  don't  know  me  yet,"  said  Fanny. 
"I'll  tell  you  confidentially  that  I'm  not  nice, 
but  you  mustn't  find  it  out.  Tell  me  what  you 
like — horses,  dogs,  cards.  I  am  always  very 
anxious  to  suit  my  conversation  to  my  audi 
ence." 

"Do  you  think  it  impossible  I  should  go  be 
yond  that  range  in  my  likings  ?"  he  inquired, 
rather  injured. 

"Few  men  do,  at  all  events." 

"Well,  at  least  I  do  not  like  cards,"  said  he. 

"So  much  the  better,"  returned  she,  quickly. 
"  Mind  you  are  able  to  say  the  same  next  spring ; 
will  you  remember  ?" 

"Do  you  want  a  promise?"  he  asked,  feeling 
that  it  would  be  delightful  to  have  such  a  pledge 
between  them. 

"Yes;  a  promise." 

"Then  I  give  it." 

Straightway  she  recollected  that  probably  she 
was  running  directly  counter  to  St.  Simon's  plans, 
but  she  did  not  care.  Something  about  this 
frank,  fresh,  handsome  young  fellow  interested 
her  as  men  of  his  age  seldom  did.  She  would 
keep  him  in  Paris  if  she  could,  but  he  should  not 
be  made  a  victim.  She  did  not  even  think  of 
making  him  hers,  though  nowadays  she  was  so 
sore  at  heart,  and  so  bitter,  that  she  spared  few 
of  his  sex  who  crossed  her  path  ;  but  she  meant 
no  harm  to  him. 

She  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  attempts  of  her 
other  neighbor  to  draw  her  into  conversation, 
and  talked  with  Roland  Spencer  as  she  could 
talk  when  she  chose,  perceiving  that  he  could 
appreciate  subjects  beyond  the  ordinary  limits  of 
ordinary  young  men.  In  the  mean  while  the 
general  chatter  went  on  its  course,  Mrs.  Pattaker 
keeping  it  a  good  deal  in  her  own  control.  Just 
now  she  was  full  of  the  claims  of  Legitimacy. 
If  Henry  V.  had  promised  her  the  title  of  duch 
ess,  she  could  not  have  been  louder  in  his  praise, 
and  her  assertion  of  his  rights.  She  abused  the 
fallen  emperor,  and  all  belonging  to  him;  and 
no  one  so  much  as  looked  a  recollection  of  the 
days  when  she  had  moved  heaven  and  earth  to 
obtain  invitations  to  court,  and  had  given  an  em 
erald  bracelet,  worth  sums  untold,  to  the  fair 
countess  who  procured  for  her  the  honor  of  stay 
ing  three  days  at  Compiegne. 

"Extremes meet, "said Mrs. Pattaker ;  "there 
fore  I,  a  born  Republican — I,  in  whose  veins  run 
the  blood  of  one  of  the  signers  of  the  most  august 
document  the  world  ever  saw — am  at  the  same 
time  a  Legitimist.  I  would  place  the  drapeau 
blanc  and  the  Star-spangled  Banner  side  by  side, 
and  go  forth  to  victory,  conscious  that  I  bore  the 


two  emblems  under  which  might  nestle  the  hopes 
of  an  entire  world." 

It  was  very  fine  language,  and  it  was  felt  to  be 
such  by  her  hearers. 

"As  a  man  and  an  Englishman,  madam,"  said 
old  Sir  John,  "  I  may  say  as  a  baronet,  I  thor 
oughly  agree  with  your  doctrine  ;  it's  putting  the 
thing  neatly,  and  putting  it  in  a  nutshell ;  it  is, 
begad." 

"It  makes  your  talkers  on  the  other  side  sing 
small,"  said  Colonel  Judd ;  "it's  finishing  the 
thing  up  to  the  handle,  and  no  mistake." 

Most  people  expressed  the  same  opinion  in 
their  different  ways,  and  Mrs.  Pattaker  leaned 
pensively  back  in  the  family  attitude,  and  her 
brow  flushed  a  little  under  its  tiara  of  brilliants 
— flushed  with  a  consciousness  of  superiority, 
mental  and  moral.  To  do  Mrs.  Pattaker  justice, 
her  complexion  was  her  own,  and  a  good  one 
still ;  so  was  her  figure.  Mrs.  Pattaker  was  a 
pagan ;  her  chief  gods  were  wealth  and  station. 
But  she  went  to  church  regularly  oiice  a  week  in 
the  cause  of  respectability,  and  always  had  va 
rious  charities  on  hand,  to  which  she  obliged  her 
satellites  to  subscribe  liberally.  Talk  to  Mrs. 
Pattaker  about  physical  illness  or  pain — she  had 
never  suffered  either — and  she  would  have  called 
you  weak.  Talk  to  her  about  the  heart-ache, 
and  she  would  have  thought  you  an  idiot.  Take 
Mrs.  Pattaker  as  she  was ;  be  humble  and  ador 
ing,  and  if  you  were  a  woman,  she  endured  you 
gracefully;  if  you  were  a  man,  she  allowed  you 
to  kneel  at  the  foot  of  her  pedestal,  while  she 
dazzled  you  by  the  majesty  of  the  family  atti 
tude. 

"We  sink  into  it  naturally,"  she  sometimes 
observed ;  "as  far  back  as  we  can  trace  the  line 
of  the  august  Signer" — and  her  looks  said  that 
was  almost  to  the  Flood — "  the  family  attitude 
has  been  an  heir-loom.  It  suggests  thought,  it 
suggests  contemplation,  it  suggests  mind.  It  is 
no  merit  of  my  own  that  I  possess  it — no  weak 
ness  to  admit  its  possession.  I  have  it — that  is 
all ;  it  is  enough." 

The  quill  which  the  august  Signer  had  used  lay 
on  a  velvet  cushion  under  a  glass  case  in  Mrs. 
Pattaker's  drawing-room.  The  gold  snuff-box 
presented  him  by  George  III.  previous  to  the 
Revolution  lay  beside  it.  On  the  anniversary  of 
the  Declaration  Mrs.  Pattaker  made  a  feast,  and 
shed  tears  before  the  pen  and  the  snuff-box,  and 
her  guests  were  expected  to  shed  tears  likewise. 
History  does  not  record  that  Mrs. Pattaker  ever 
shed  tears  on  any  other  occasion  or  subject ;  but 
she  wept  once  each  year  over  these  mementos  of 
her  illustrious  ancestor,  and  did  it  gracefully. 
Beauty,  like  the  attitude,  was  an  heir-loom  in  the 
Signer's  family.  Mrs.  Pattaker's  great-aunt  had 
been  a  toast  at  Louis  XIV.'s  court.  Another 
greit-aunt  had  wedded  an  English  earl. 

The  portraits  of  both  ladies  were  still  in  exist 
ence,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  in  regard  to 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


27 


their  truthfulness,  for  they  closely  resembled  Mrs. 
Pattaker,  attitude  and  all. 

"Just  to  think,"  Fanny  said,  pensively,  ad 
dressing  Roland  Spencer  in  an  under-tone,  "  if 
poor  crazy  old  King  George — I  don't  remember 
which — had  only  succeeded  in  beheading  the 
signers,  there  never  would  have  been  any  Mrs. 
Pattaker." 

"What  a  mercy,"  he  began  ;  but  Fanny  held 
up  her  finger  with  a  mischievous  look,  and  inter 
rupted — 

"That  the  dear  royal  old  gentleman's  sangui 
nary  designs  were  not  earned  into  execution,  of 
course. " 

"Of  course,"  repeated  Roland.  Then  both 
laughed  again,  and  he  thought  her  wittier  than 
ever. 

"I  was  born  with  a  hatred  of  dinner-parties," 
said  he,  jumping  through  his  thoughts  till  he 
reached  in  his  mind  the  difference  between  this 
festivity  and  those  framed  on  the  stereotyped 
pattern. 

"Thanks,"  retorted  Fanny,  before  he  could 
get  further;  "and  I  was  born  with  a  hatred  of 
the  people  who  accept  invitations  to  them — " 

"  You  did  not  let  me  finish — " 

"  I  am  glad  ;  you  might  have  said  something 
worse." 

"I  wanted  to  say  that  to-night's  party  is 
so  different  from  my  experience  and  ideas,  that 
I  take  dinners  into  favor  henceforth,"  laughed 
he. 

"Oh!"  said  Fanny.  "And  I  meant  to  add 
that  the  company  this  evening  reconciles  me  to 
dinner-goers — thanks,  of  course,  to  Mrs.  Patta 
ker." 

"  The  Pattaker  is  not  half  a  bad  woman,"  re 
turned  Roland,  feeling  so  amiably  disposed  that 
he  could  even  venture  to  speak  with  improper 
familiarity  of  that  august  personage. 

"Half  bad,  indeed  !"  cried  Fanny.  "Why, 
there  are  no  comparisons  for  her !  She  is  unique 
— she  is  Mrs.  Pattaker,  and  nobody  else.  That 
is  the  reason  all  virtuous  people  are  at  liberty  to 
worship  her.  She  resembles  nothing  in  the  heav 
ens  above  or  the  earth  beneath." 

Roland  forgot  the  irreverence  of  her  speech  in 
his  appreciation  of  its  fun,  and  thought  that  each 
instant  she  grew  more  fascinating. 

"You  are  not  to  persuade  me  to  be  wicked  any 
longer,"  said  Fanny.  "  I  am  sure  you  come  un 
der  the  head  of  the  temptations  we  are  taught  to 
struggle  against.  I  can  feel  Mrs.  Pattaker's  eyes 
on  me  this  moment.  I  dare  not  look  toward  her 
to  be  certain ;  but  I  feel  their  power." 

Roland  looked ;  sure  enough,  Mrs.  Pattaker 
was  intently  regarding  them,  even  while  she  list 
ened  amiably  to  St.  Simon's  conversation. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Fanny;  "I  saw  you  start. 
I  assure  you,  besides  all  her  other  wonderful 
<ltialities,  she  is  as  full  of  magnetism  as  the  nee 
dle  or  the  North  Pole,  or  whatever  it  is  that  at 


tracts.  I  can  always  tell  when  she  enters  a  room, 
even  if  I  can  not  see  her." 

"Ridiculous  old  thing,"  muttered  Roland,  so 
annoyed  by  the  great  lady's  scrutiny  that  he  could 
not  remember  courtesy. 

"  Don't  think  out  loud,"  said  Fanny ;  "  there's 
nothing  so  impolite.  It  is  horridly  vulgar  to 
think  at  all ;  but  at  least  you  must  learn  to  act 
as  if  you  were  not  capable  of  such  an  enormity." 

So  they  continued  their  nonsense,  and  forgot 
all  about  Mrs.  Pattaker.  But  that  lady  did  not 
forget  them,  and,  unless  when  talking  herself,  re 
membered  to  watch  them.  Mrs.  Pattaker's  eyes 
were  serviceable  as  well  as  handsome,  and  per 
ceived  clearly  the  danger  which  lay  in  store  for 
Roland  Spencer. 

She  decided  to  warn  him  against  Fanny  St. 
Simon — to  do  it  without  delay.  She  must  fulfill 
her  duty  by  the  son  of  her  old  friend  ;  and  when 
this  principle  actuated  Mrs.  Pattaker,  she  stop 
ped  at  nothing.  In  the  present  case  her  duty 
was  plain  — "  he  who  ran  might  read."  Mrs. 
Pattaker,  like  many  other  people,  was  fond  of 
Scriptural  quotations,  when  her  conscience  was 
roused,  as  to  the  necessity  of  nullifying  the  witch 
eries  of  some  sister  woman  who  was  likely  to  be 
trusted  by  unwary  pilgrims. 

Mrs.  Pattaker  made  a  note  of  the  duty  in  her 
mind,  and  that  kind  of  moral  obligation  Mrs. 
Pattaker  never  forgot. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN     THE     SALON. 

THE  dinner — and  a  remarkably  good  one  it 
was — followed  its  course  in  as  decorous  a  fashion 
as  if  its  givers  had  been  born  and  bred  noble  as 
the  noblest  of  their  guests — say  Mrs.  Pattaker  or 
the  marquis — instead  of  being  the  most  out-and- 
out  pair  of  Bohemians  that  ever  existed. 

The  thought  of  all  she  had  gone  through  in 
the  past  months  rose  more  than  once  in  Fanny's 
mind ;  and  several  times  when  she  met  St.  Si 
mon's  eyes  she  could  see  the  reflection  of  similar 
memories  there.  Not  that  either  of  them  felt 
the  least  surprise  at  the  odd  vicissitudes.  If 
Fanny  could  have  been  proved  the  rightful  heir 
to  the  English  throne,  she  would  not  have  ex 
perienced  more  than  n  passing  thrill  of  astonish 
ment  ;  and  St.  Simon,  turned  into  an  Eastern 
pasha,  say  some  fine  Monday  morning,  would 
have  been  quite  equal  to  the  duties  of  his  new 
position  before  noon. 

Both  had  the  same  almost  irresistible  desire  to 
tell  the  whole  story  of  St.  Simon's  wanderings 
and  Fanny's  hardships  out  for  the  public  amuse 
ment — the  threatened  cooking  of  the  Tortoise  to 
make  the  climax.  But  finding  themselves  in 
such  virtuous  society,  they  assimilated  too  per 
fectly  therewith  to  give  way  to  such  wicked 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


temptings  of  carnal  nature.  Still  the  impulse 
would  every  now  and  then  dart  through  their 
minds,  and  each  could  read  it  in  the  other's 
eyes ;  and  perhaps  that,  slight  thing  as  it  was, 
amused  both  more  than  all  the  brilliant  conver 
sation  of  the  high  and  mighty  people  whom  they 
had  the  honor  of  entertaining. 

Considering  that  the  chief  guests  were  mar 
quises  and  the  mothers-in-law  of  dukes,  and  oth 
er  appallingly  great  personages,  perhaps  it  was 
natural  that  the  general  tone  of  conversation 
should  be  a  little  stately  and  overpowering — not 
dull,  of  course,  but  grand  ;  no  merry  trifles,  no 
nonsensical  persiflage  such  as  Fanny  and  Roland 
Spencer  were  privately  indulging  in ;  just  slow 
and  dignified,  and  —  and  (this  was  St.  Simon's 
thought,  so  do  not  blame  me  for  it)  slightly  sop 
orific  in  its  effects. 

Mrs.  Pattaker  occasionally  got  back  to  Henry 
V.  She  approached  the  subject  in  a  majestic 
fashion,  which  made  one  feel  as  if  one  were  in  a 
throne  -  room,  watching  her  pay  her  homage  to 
visible  royalty.  She  related  personal  anecdotes 
of  the  worthy  descendant  of  the  Bourbons,  and 
displayed  her  familiarity  with  his  history  in  a 
delightful  way.  But  whatever  might  be  the  sub 
ject  she  chose  to  enlarge  upon,  it  was  treated  in 
a  manner  which  displayed  Mrs.  Pattaker's  own 
virtues  and  claims  to  admiration  so  clearly  that 
there  was  no  possibility  of  any  body's  forgetting 
them. 

The  other  guests  talked  too.  Sometimes  St. 
Simon  and  the  agreeable  people  would  seize  the 
upper  hand  and  keep  it  for  a  few  moments ;  but 
before  long  Sir  John  Dudgeon  was  sure  to  tram 
ple  down  their  trivial  remarks  under  his  gruff 
voice,  or  Mrs.  Pattaker  would  go  into  or  come 
out  of  the  family  attitude,  and  perform  a  long 
monologue  calculated  to  awe  the  unregenerate 
soul  who  might  be  forced  to  listen.  Indeed, 
every  body  talked  except  Lady  Dudgeon  and 
the  Tortoise.  The  baronet's  wife  was  a  good 
deal  occupied  in  keeping  the  convolvulus  wreath 
in  its  proper  place.  The  wreath  did  not  seem 
pleased  with  its  abode,  and  was  constantly  trail 
ing  away  like  a  snake  over  the  shoulder  of  one 
neighbor  or  tickling  the  face  of  the  other,  caus 
ing  each  in  turn  to  jump  in  an  undignified  man 
ner,  and  indulge  in  frantic,  not  to  say  indeco 
rous,  dashes,  under  the  impression  that  he  was 
assailed  by  some  species  of  reptile  with  a  bite  in 
it.  The  poor  Tortoise,  according  to  her  usual 
habit,  went  partially  asleep  between  the  courses, 
but  she  felt  that  St.  Simon  was  watching  her, 
and  took  care  to  doze  in  a  preternaturally  erect 
attitude,  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  and  void  of 
speculation  as  two  bits  of  glass.  The  perform 
ance  infinitely  amused  her  husband  and  his  niece, 
both  being  of  the  order  of  people  who  could  talk 
about  one  thing,  listen  to  another,  and  see  every 
thing  which  happened  into  the  bargain.  But  at 
least  the  Tortoise  and  Lady  Dudgeon  could  eat, 


and  they  did ;  and  as,  after  all,  that  is  the  pur 
pose  for  which  people  sit  down  to  dinner,  they 
may  be  said  to  have  played  well  their  parts, 
and  their  utter  disregard  of  an  indigestion  later 
showed  positive  bravery  besides. 

Roland  Spencer  did  not  by  any  means  prove 
a  dining -table  meteor,  as  Mr.  Disraeli  would 
have  done  in  his  youth ;  nevertheless,  St.  Si 
mon,  who  found  leisure  to  glance  toward  him 
now  and  then,  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  his 
behavior.  The  young  man  was  so  dazzled  by 
Fanny  that  he  drank  nectar  and  ate  glorified 
food  not  to  be  found  in  the  bill  of  fare.  Several 
marriageable  ladies  remarked  his  conduct,  but 
with  no  such  sentiments  of  approval  as  their 
host  entertained.  They  knew  Spencer  was  rich, 
and  they  could  see  that  he  was  handsome,  and 
thought  it  just  like  Miss  St.  Simon's  impudence 
to  set  about  turning  his  head  before  they  could 
get  any  "  show  "  whatever.  They  would  have 
liked  charitably  to  warn  him  of  his  danger ;  to 
repeat  the  gossip  rife  in  regard  to  her  uncle  and 
his  family ;  to  mention,  not  maliciously,  but  from 
a  desire  to  aid  a  fellow  human  being,  what  a 
heartless  and  outrageous  flirt  the  creature  her 
self  was  universally  considered.  Even  Paola 
Walton,  that  modern  Juliet  yearning  for  the 
grave,  still  retained  sufficient  interest  in  mun 
dane  matters  to  suffer  a  thrill  of  indignation,  and 
emerged  from  a  blank-verse  reverie  to  ask  her 
neighbor  if  he  did  not  think  poor  Fanny  St.  Si 
mon  had  gone  off  dreadfully  in  point  of  looks ; 
adding,  "She  must  be  old,  though.  I  can  re 
member  her  ever  since  I  was  a  tiny  thing.  But 
then  "  (here  she  sighed  and  relapsed  into  a  grace 
ful  melancholy),  "I  am  sure  she  is  to  be  con 
gratulated.  What  is  youth  ?  A  bubble,  a  dream ! 
Vanity  of  vanities  is  writ  on  all  we  see." 

Her  neighbor  took  the  speech  for  a  poetical 
quotation,  and,  feeling  it  necessary  to  make  a 
suitable  response,  ejaculated,  "Ah,  yaas!  Shaks- 
peare — exactly — very  good." 

In  the  mean  time  the  conversation  grew  more 
animated.  Old  Sir  John  Dudgeon  had  eaten 
and  drunk  till  his  face  looked  as  if  he  had  drawn 
a  magenta -colored  veil  over  it.  Colonel  Judd 
had  piled  eatables  and  drinkables  into  himself  in 
as  reckless  a  fashion  as  if  his  interior  had  been 
a  cask,  which  he  had  accepted  a  contract  to  fill 
in  a  certain  length  of  time,  and  was  pressed  to 
complete  his  bargain. 

Of  course  the  Alabama  claims  floated  up  on 
the  torrent  of  talk.  At  the  period  of  which  I 
am  writing  they  always  would,  sooner  or  later, 
find  their  way  into  the  conversation  wherever 
you  went,  until  you  dreaded  them  worse  than 
your  own  relations,  and  wished  devoutly  that  the 
claims  and  the  two  parties  therein  were  sunk 
in  the  depths  of  the  sea.  The  baronet  and  the 
colonel  pounced  upon  the  subject,  and  each  dis 
tinguished  himself  in  his  peculiar  style. 

"  If  we  had  only  died  yesterday !"  Fanny  said 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


29 


to  Roland,  with  a  shudder.  "Then  we  should 
have  escaped  this  infliction."  ' 

"If  they  had,  you  mean,"  returned  Roland; 
"then  they  would  have  been  spared  disgracing 
themselves." 

For  the  two  men  had  mounted  their  hobby 
horses,  and  were  running  a  sort  of  steeple-chase 
of  invective  and  abuse,  each  against  his  own  par 
ticular  land. 

"There  never  was  a  country  so  humiliated  as 
England,"  groaned  the  baronet;  "we  are  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  world." 

"And  we  are  rotten !"  shouted  the  colonel — 
"rotten  to  the  core!  I  see  it,  and  I  say  it; 
thank  goodness,  I  have  not  reached  a  pass  where 
I  am  ashamed  to  tell  the  truth — we  are  rotten!" 

"We  have  sunk  into  a  nation  of  shop-keep 
ers  ! "  puffed  Sir  John. 

"We  are  eaten  up  by  the  canker  of  luxury 
and  corruption,"  intoned  the  colonel,  in  his  most 
nasal  accents ;  "  eaten  alive — like — like  vultures 
feeding  on  carrion. " 

"I  wonder  whether  he  ranks  himself  among 
the  birds  of  prey  or  comes  under  the  head  of  that 
very  unpleasant  kind  of  food,"  said  Fanny,  in  a 
low  voice,  to  Roland. 

But  Spencer  could  not  laugh ;  this  style  of 
conversation  on  the  part  of  a  fellow  -  country 
man  filled  him  with  strong  indignation,  and  he 
thought  the  baronet,  if  possible,  more  idiotic  and 
vulgar  than  the  colonel.  He  was  scarcely  aware 
that  both  in  England  and  America  there  is  to  be 
found  a  class  of  persons — let  us  hope  not  a  large 
one — whose  chief  delight  seems  to  consist  in 
abusing  the  land  which  was  so  unfortunate  as  to 
give  them  birth.  The  two  speakers  were  nota 
ble  instances  of  this  order.  To  listen  to  Sir  John 
Dudgeon,  one  would  have  supposed  that  England 
was  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy — that  she  had 
not  a  sound  ship  left  in  her  navy — not  a  capable 
man  among  her  politicians. 

Nor  was  the  colonel,  on  his  side,  a  whit  behind 
the  baronet.  He  might  have  been  a  column  in 
a  daily  newspaper,  so  full  was  he  of  malice  and 
virulence.  Sir  John's  political  rulers  were  a  set 
of  old  women;  the  colonel's  were  pirates,  or 
worse. 

"I  wonder,  "said  Fanny  St.  Simon,  sweetly, 
when  the  pair  paused  for  breath,  "that  you 
don't  each  go  back  to  your  own  country,  and  try 
all  in  one  man's  power  to  set  matters  straight." 

"While  America  sends  such  representatives 
as  she  does  abroad,  what  can  you  expect  ?"  roar 
ed  the  colonel,  thereby  showing  in  what  his  pri 
vate  grievance  consisted. 

"While  oar  elections  go  by  bribery,  and  lords 
carry  boroughs  in  their  breeches-pockets,  what 
hope  is  there  of  an  honest  man's  being  heard  ?" 
wheezed  Sir  John. 

Then  it  became  evident  that  it  was  the  bar 
onet's  exclusion  from  Parliament  which  had  ru 
ined  England. 


Up  to  this  moment  Mrs.  Pattaker  had  been 
engaged  in  a  low-voiced  dialogue  with  St.  Simon, 
in  regard  to  the  mysterious  mining  shares.  Now 
she  mounted  her  pedestal,  and  assumed  the  fam 
ily  attitude. 

"  Sir  John,"  said  she. 

"Mrs.  Pattaker,"  gulped  Sir  John. 

"Colonel  Judd." 

"Ma'am  to  you,"  quoth  the  colonel.  Then 
suddenly  remembered  his  contract,  and  hastily 
poured  a  glass  of  wine  into  his  cask. 

"You  are  both  wrong;  perhaps  both  right," 
sighed  Mrs.  Pattaker.  "But  in  neither  land 
ought  we  to  waste  our  time  with  trivial  contests. 
What  are  a  few  billions  or  trillions "  (she  said 
the  words  as  easily  as  you  or  I  could  pence) 
"more  or  less?  We  should  be  aiding  the  dra- 
peau  blanc  to  float  over  France,  and  cause  the 
electric  current  of  friendship  to  thrill  from 
Gallia's  heart  to  Columbia's  farthest  shore,  em 
bracing  Albion  in  its  all-pervading  sweep." 

"Ah, "said  St.  Simon,  "that  is  reason  and 
poetry  combined." 

Here  Fanny  succeeded  in  rousing  the  Tor 
toise  from  her  upright  slumber,  and  Mrs.  Patta 
ker  was  forced  to  rise  with  the  other  ladies ; 
though  she  felt  that  Miss  St.  Simon,  bold  as  she 
had  always  been,  had  undoubtedly  developed  a 
fresh  fund  of  insolence  during  the  past  year. 

"You  may  follow  us  if  you  like,"  that  young 
lady  said  to  Spencer.  "I  think  you  have  en 
dured  enough  for  your  sins." 

The  Frenchmen  liked  to  follow  also ;  so  did 
most  of  the  other  men.  St.  Simon  was  left  with 
Sir  John,  the  colonel,  and  a  few  such  heavy  old 
birds,  who  preferred  an  additional  bottle  of  claret 
to  feminine  society.  St.  Simon  was  perfectly  sat 
isfied  with  the  success  of  his  dinner ;  his  niece 
saw  this  as  soon  as  he  appeared  in  the  salon,  im 
possible  as  it  would  have  been  for  any  one  else 
to  read  his  face. 

Before  the  loiterers  entered,  Roland .  Spencer 
devoted  himself  to  Fanny,  and  grew  more  and 
more  bewildered  by  her  fascinations.  No  doubt 
it  was  foolish  ;  yet  I  think  an  older  man  might 
easily  have  envied  him  the  ability ;  envied  him 
the  sensation  too — for  it  was  the  first  time  the 
beautiful  dream  had  set  up  its  kingdom  in  his 
heart.  It  sounds  odd  to  write  of  a  youth  of  this 
generation  who  had  almost  reached  three-and- 
twenty,  but  it  was  true  nevertheless. 

Straightway  this  woman  became  glorified  in 
his  sight,  and  he  trod  on  air.  When  she  gave 
him  a  cup  of  tea,  it  turned  his  head  like  strong 
wine  ;  when  she  sung  to  him — literally,  to  him, 
she  said  —  he  went  away  off  into  heaven,  and 
staid  there.  For  the  rest  of  the  evening  he 
heard  nothing  but  her  delicious  voice — saw  noth 
ing  but  the  magical  smile  and  the  siren  glance 
with  which  she  dizzied  his  soul  anew. 

Fanny  St.  Simon  meant  no  harm  to  the  boy 
— she  called  him  that — wondering  at  his  fresh- 


30 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


ness  of  feeling.  She  only  wanted  to  oblige  her 
uncle  ;  and  her  experience  of  life  had  not  taught 
her  to  place  much  confidence  in  the  sudden  pas 
sions  to  which  she  knew  men  were  given. 

The  mild  festivity  ended ;  and  as  soon  as  the 
guests  were  gone,  Fanny  rang  for  the  new  maid 
to  convey  the  Tortoise  to  her  room.  If  there 
was  any  delay,  the  poor  soul  would  be  sure  to 
fall  asleep,  and  require  half  an  hour  of  persua 
sion  and  shaking  to  bring  her  back  to  conscious 
ness. 

"  Well,"  said  Fanny,  turning  toward  her  un 
cle  as  the  Tortoise  disappeared  under  the  wait 
ing-woman's  charge,  muttering  incoherent  sen 
tences  to  the  last,  and  prolonging  the  departure 
by  dropping  some  article  of  attire  at  each  step, 
"Well,  St.  Simon?"  said  Fanny. 

He  glanced  at  her,  his  lips  still  parted  in  the 
smile  of  good-natured  contempt  with  which  he 
had  been  regarding  the  partner  of  his  life ;  but 
it  changed  to  an  expression  of  admiration  as  his 
eyes  met  those  of  the  girl. 

"You  are  looking  wonderfully  well  to-night," 
lie  observed,  deftly  turning  a  cigarette  in  his  long 
white  fingers. 

"Ah!  you  are  satisfied  with  the  evening,"  re 
turned  Fanny,  lazily,  apparently  accounting  to 
herself  for  the  compliment. 

"Perfectly,"  he  said.  "  I'm  afraid  you  have 
already  made  a  mooning  lunatic  of  that  young 
Spencer." 

"  He's  a  very  nice  boy,"  Fanny  replied.  "  We 
shall  be  great  friends." 

"Hum!"  laughed  St.  Simon,  softly,  "that's 
rather  like  what  the  spider  said  to  the  fly  in  the 
children's  rhyme." 

"  Indeed,  I  wouldn't  do  him  a  mischief  for  the 
world,"  she  exclaimed,  honestly.  "I  have  not 
seen  any  body  so  earnest  and  straightforward  in 
an  age." 

"Dear  me!  dear  me!"  and  St.  Simon  shook 
his  head,  laughing  still.  "  He's  in  worse  danger 
than  I  thought,  if  you  are  meaning  to  try  the 
friendly  and  sympathetic." 

Fanny  began  a  rather  indignant  disclaimer,  but 
checked  it  suddenly :  her  face  showed  that  she  did 
not  think  it  worth  while  to  convince  St.  Simon. 

"Only  don't  run  counter  openly  to  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker's  plans  for  him,"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 
"She's  in  a  particularly  amiable  mood,  and  I 
want  to  keep  her  so." 

"  Mrs.  Pattaker  is  an  idiot!"  cried  Fanny, 
irritably.  "What  plans  has  she  for  the  poor 
boy  ?  Of  course  I  shall  balk  them !  I  never 
did  let  that  woman  get  the  better  of  me." 

"  She  wants  to  arrange  a  marriage  for  him. 
She  has  nobody  in  view,  I  fancy.  But  just  don't 
parade  an  intimacy  with  Spencer  before  her.  I 
foresee  that  she  will  prove  an  immense  help  to 
us." 

"  If  she  only  loses  a  lot  of  money,  it  will  be 
a  comfort,"  said  Fanny. 


"Nobody  will  lose  any  money  in  this  trans 
action,  my  child,"  returned  St.  Simon,  in  a  tone 
of  dignified  reproach. 

"So  much  the  better  for  nobody,  my  child," 
said  Fanny,  imitating  his  voice.  "  But  will  it  be 
so  much  the  better  for  us  ?  There,  then,  don't 
look  cross!  I  assure  you  that  I  begin  to  have 
the  profoundest  faith  in  the  Nevada  Silver — 
what  is  it  ?" 

"  You  are  nervous  and  irritable  to-night — have 
a  cigarette  ? — and  you  have  been  so  for  several 
days — ever  since — " 

He  seemed  trying  to  set  the  exact  time,  but 
Fanny  knew  that  he  was  hesitating  whether  to 
run  the  risk  of  offending  her  by  the  mention  of 
Castlemaine's  name.  St.  Simon  never  liked  any 
body  to  tilt  at  him  without  making  a  return 
thrust. 

"Ever  since  when?"  demanded  she,  in  her 
ominously  calm  voice. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  think  ever  since  I  got 
back,"  said  he,  deciding  it  wiser  to  let  her  scorn 
ful  mention  of  his  projects  go  unpunished.  "  The 
joy  of  seeing  me  probably  has  upset  you  a  little." 

"It  may  be  I  am  cross  because  my  projects 
were  disarranged,"  she  answered,  merrily.  "I 
meant  to  have  come  out  at  a  cafe  chantant,  and 
your  arrival  deprived  me  of  a  new  sensation." 

Their  conversation  continued  on  the  most  am 
icable  footing  in  spite  of  the  slight  disagreement 
that  had  threatened.  Gradually  the  talk  grew 
more  serious  as  St.  Simon  led  it  toward  the  great 
scheme  which  occupied  his  thoughts.  He  was 
so  frank  and  straightforward  that  Fanny  could 
not  help  believing  there  must  be  some  awful 
treachery  at  the  bottom,  though,  tiy  as  artfully 
as  she  might,  she  could  not  get  the  clue,  and 
finally  was  forced  to  believe  the  Nevada  Silver 
Company  a  bona-fide  affair. 

She  laughed  to  herself  after  she  retired  to  her 
own  room.  It  seemed  so  absurd  to  think  of  St. 
Simon  as  engaged  in  any  transaction  which  pos 
sessed  a  really  sound  foundation.  Then  her 
thoughts  wandered  away  —  she  could  not  tell 
how,  nor  could  she  ever  control  those  vagrant 
fancies — to  that  last  meeting  with  Talbot  Castle- 
maine ;  to  the  brief  span  of  Italian  days  when 
she  had  dreamed  and  been  happy — the  season 
which  she  believed  might  have  left  her  another 
woman  had  Fate  been  kinder.  It  was  all  over 
now.  The  final  possibility  of  goodness  had  been 
killed  in  her ;  nobody  need  blame  her,  whatever 
happened.  The  world  was  a  battle-ground,  and 
she  must  fight  her  way — gare  to  those  who  stood 
in  her  path !  Helen  Devereux's  pale,  proud  face 
rose  before  her ;  she  seemed  to  see  Castlemaine 
looking  into  the  sad  eyes,  to  hear  him  breathing 
the  false  vows  which  were  to  win  him  ease  and 
luxury ;  and  all  Fanny's  demons  took  possession 
of  her. 

Gregory  Alleyne  was  coming — there  was  a 
slight  consolation.  Let  Helen  Devereux  strive 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


31 


as  she  would  to  forget,  life  could  hold  for  her 
no  pang  so  sharp  as  the  sight  of  this  man  trans 
ferring  his  allegiance  to  another. 

Wait!  A  new  thought  started  up  in  Fanny's 
mind — a  thought  so  wild,  so  full  of  possible  hap 
piness,  that,  coming  suddenly  upon  her,  it  turned 
her  fairly  dizzy  and  faint. 

If  St.  Simon's  plan  should  prove  a  success — 
if  those  shares  he  promised  at  once  to  place  in 
her  name  should  as  speedily  as  he  prophesied 
realize  a  great  sum !  Why,  she  would  be  a  rich 
woman — as  well  able  as  Miss  Devereux  to  offer 
Castlemaine  the  wealth  he  coveted.  And  he 
had  loved  her !  •  Oh  yes ;  vain,  idle,  shallow, 
false  as  she  knew  him  to  be  (and  she  knew  his 
faults  thoroughly,  though  that  knowledge  did 
not  affect  her  heart),  he  had  loved  her  better 
than  he  ever  could  any  other  woman. 

Wait !  Why,  it  was  a  whole  new  life  which 
opened  before  her  in  this  mad,  bewildering  vis 
ion.  If  St.  Simon  did  not  deceive  himself  and 
her,  in  six  months  the  dream  might  prove  a  real 
ity.  It  was  in  her  power  to  clear  up  the  dark 
ness  which  separated  Miss  Devereux  and  Greg 
ory  Alleyne ;  she  had  been  inclined  to  speak  the 
words  long  before,  in  order  to  render  it  impossi 
ble  for  Castlemaine  to  marry  the  girl.  She  had 
not  spoken,  because  she  knew  well  that  in  so  do 
ing  she  could  not  bring  the  vain  man  one  inch 
nearer  herself.  He  would  only  rush  off  in  pur 
suit  of  another  fortune  if  he  lost  the  hope  of  Miss 
Devereux's.  And,  in  her  strange  jumble  of  feel 
ings,  Fanny — since  she  was  unable  to  win  him — 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  losing  him  the  wealth 
for  which  he  meant  to  sell  his  soul.  These  ideas 
caused  her  to  hate  Miss  Devereux  more  intense 
ly  ;  the  whole  appeared  heu  fault  in  Fanny's  eyes. 
Let  her  suffer;  let  her  marry  Castlemaine  and 
be  wretched ;  and  when  her  misery  was  at  its 
height,  she  should  leam  that  only  her  own  in 
tolerable  pride  had  stood  between  her  and  peace. 

But  it  was  all  changed  now — that  is,  if  St. 
Simon  did  not  lie.  For  the  present,  Fanny  was 
bound  hand  and  foot;  she  could  not  act  until 
her  fortune  was  secure.  Let  Alleyne  come ;  she 
would  fool  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent ;  become 
engaged  to  him.  Miss  Devereux  would  not 
marry  Castlemaine  at  once  —  she  would  abate 
and  ponder  and  weigh  the  matter.  Before  it 
was  too  late,  Fanny  could  bring  the  estranged 
lovers  together,  and  claim  her  own  reward — if 
St.  Simon  did  not  deceive  himself  or  her.  There 
was  always  that  black  chance  to  contemplate ; 
and  it  was  difficult  to  have  faith  in  St.  Simon  or 
his  schemes.  But  since  the  conversation  of  this 
night,  the  documents  he  had  shown  her,  every 
thing  appeared  so  straightforward,  so  clear. 

She  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement.  She  hur 
ried  np  and  down  the  room,  distracted  in  her  ef 
forts  to  think  calmly  by  the  mad  throbbings  of 
her  heart,  and  the  beautiful  visions  which  her 
capricious  fancy  sought  to  indulge.  Well  as  she 


knew  Castlemaine,  she  had  no  fear ;  she  judged 
him  by  herself — he  would  have  been  every  thing 
good  and  noble  had  Fate  proved  more  lenient. 
Before  she  was  aware,  she  had  gone  worlds  away 
from  the  point  she  meant  to  study — off  into  a 
glorified  haunt  which  looked  like  a  heavenly 
Italy — Castlemaine  beside  her — the  wealth  they 
both  worshiped  in  their  possession. 

As  she  walked  up  and  down  she  caught  sight 
of  her  own  face  in  the  mirror,  and  somehow  this 
brought  her  back  to  her  senses. 

"I  should  really  be  handsome  if  I  could  have 
a  little  peace,"  she  muttered. 

Her  whole  countenance  had  changed  and 
brightened  under  the  bewildering  vision.  She 
looked  years  younger  than  her  age ;  her  eyes 
were  beautiful,  with  a  soft,  lambent  light ;  a  girl 
just  entering  her  teens  might  have  envied  the 
bloom  on  her  cheeks. 

"I'm  an  idiot!"  she  continued,  half  aloud. 
"I  mustn't  dream  like  this  again.  I  can  do 
nothing.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  don't  take  care! 
If  Castlemaine  should  marry  her!" 

Her  face  grew  cold  and  gray ;  two  deep  lines 
traced  themselves  between  her  eyebrows.  She 
turned  angrily  from  her  reflection  in  the  mirror, 
sat  down  in  her  favorite  easy-chair  to  think  out 
her  plan  of  action,  putting  her  heart  resolutely 
aside,  as  her  checkered  existence  had  taught  her 
to  do. 

She  knew  from  her  English  letters  there  was 
as  yet  no  engagement  between  Castlemaine  and 
Miss  Devereux.  She  knew  also  that  Miss  Dever 
eux  would  be  slow  to  yield.  Let  matters  go  on 
— when  sure  that  the  promised  golden  harvest  of 
St.  Simon's  was  a  certainty  she  would  allow  Cas 
tlemaine  to  learn  the  truth.  Once  convinced 
that  she  was  rich,  he  would  not  hesitate. 

Yet  with  these  thoughts  in  her  mind  she  made 
a  hero  of  the  man.  She  excused  his  weakness 
and  vices ;  for  these  she  blamed  his  education. 
She  trusted  him — believed  in  his  capabilities  for 
good.  Poor,  ill-trained  girl,  witli  almost  every 
right  impulse  thwarted  and  turned  away,  she 
loved  him  with  all  the  passion  of  her  impetuous 
heart,  all  the  force  of  her  imperious  will !  She 
would  have  been  capable  of  a  great  crime  to  win 
him,  and  believe  that  her  love  sanctified  the 
means.  A  horrible  cree.d  to  hold.  Nothing 
more  pitiful  and  blamable  to  contemplate  than 
this  woman  in  the  pass  to  which  she  had  allowed 
life  to  bring  her ;  yet  she  told  the  truth  when  she 
said  that  under  other  circumstances  she  might 
have  been  a  different  creature.  No  excuse ;  nor 
do  I  seek  to  excuse  her.  I  will  not  voluntarily 
cast  a  single  glow  over  the  sin  of  living  for  self, 
which,  if  you  trace  it  through  its  varied  ramifica 
tions,  was  Fanny  St.  Simon's  chief  and  underly 
ing  error. 

And  while  she  wove  her  worldly  schemes,  nnd 
strove  to  find  the  road  to  happiness,  careless,  in 
her  egotism,  through  what  pain  to  others  she 


32 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


might  reach  it,  that  foolish  Roland  Spencer  sat 
dreaming  of  her,  and  wasted  hours  which  could 
more  profitably  have  been  devoted  to  honest,  pro 
saic  slumber. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   DEVONSHIRE    COTTAGE. 

Miss  DEVEREUX  had  seen  fit  to  disregard  the 
invitations  poured  in  upon  her  from  lords  and 
ladies,  potentates  and  powers,  and  had  betaken 
herself  to  the  quietest  nook  in  all  Devonshire, 
where  there  was  not  a  creature  to  see  and  not  a 
thing  to  do. 

Marian  Payne  had  written  her  this  honestly, 
but  the  spoiled  American  heiress  was  not  deter 
red  from  her  purpose  thereby,  partly  because  she 
knew  her  visit  would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  her 
solitary  little  friend,  partly  because  she  was  tired 
and  out  of  temper  with  herself  and  the  world, 
and  ready  to  utter  Solomon's  doleful  cry.  It  was 
not  surprising  that  she  felt  inclined  to  echo  the 
misanthropic  declaration  of  the  Jewish  sage,  after 
such  surfeit  of  the  vanities  of  this  life  as  had  fall 
en  to  her  share.  As  a  very  young  girl  she  had 
turned  the  heads  of  all  New  York,  and  then  trav 
ersed  the  ocean  to  make  continental  capitals  ac 
knowledge  her  supremacy.  Not  content  with 
this,  during  the  past  spring  she  floated  into  May- 
fair  under  the  chaperonage  of  a  famous  duchess, 
and  there  was  scarcely  a  title  lower  than  royalty 
which  had  not  been  offered  to  Helen  Devereux 
and  her  millions. 

But  when  the  season  closed  she  paid  a  few  un 
avoidable  visits,  and  flitted  across  the  Channel  for 
a  time.  She  came  back,  established  her  step 
mother  in  a  pleasant  Twickenham  villa,  with 
quantities  of  new  books,  an  Angora  cat,  and  an 
old-maid  gossip  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  her  con 
tent,  and,  unencumbered  with  either  maid  or  man, 
set  off  on  her  journey  into  the  heart  of  beautiful 
Devon. 

The  very  first  evening  of  her  arrival,  as  she 
sat  in  the  mysterious  twilight,  with  the  cottage  as 
quiet  as  the  Sleeping  Beauty's  palace,  and  Marian 
sitting  opposite  her,  looking  almost  as  pretty  as 
the  famous  princess,  the  world,  with  its  miserable 
triumphs,  its  disappointments  and  mistakes,  seem 
ed  very  far  away  and  very  tiresome  to  Miss 
Devereux.  She  wondered  that  she  had  not  long 
before  made  a  recluse  of  herself  in  some  green 
wood  bower  like  this.  She  wondered  and  then 
laughed  outright  at  her  folly,  and  Marian,  roused 
by  the  sound,  came  out  of  her  own  private  dream, 
and  aslged  what  on  earth  was  the  matter. 

"May  I  not  laugh?"  demanded  Miss  Dever 
eux. 

"Oh  yes,  if  you  can  give  good  reasons,  and  let 
me  share  in  the  joke,"  returned  Marian. 

' '  I  was  laughing  at  myself — " 


"That's  what  nobody  else  ever  did,"  inter 
rupted  Marian. 

"Why,  mouse,"  cried  Miss  Devereux,  "you 
are  absolutely  becoming  bright ;  and  really  you 
have  conquered  your  demure,  shy  ways  in  an  as 
tonishing  manner." 

"  Only  from  the  pleasure  of  having  you  with 
me,"  Marian  averred  ;  "  I'm  as  shy  and  silly  as 
ever  in  reality,  I  do  assure  you." 

"I  believe  that  girl  is  actually  fond  of  me," 
quoth  Miss  Devereux,  addressing  her  familiar — 
at  least  she  called  it  so. 

This  familiar  was  an  enameled  devil  hang 
ing  to  her  chatelain,  which  she  often  consulted 
as  she  did  now,  apparently  to  learn  from  him 
whether  her  suspicion  concerning  Marian  was 
correct.  A  marvelous  little  devil  he  was,  with 
wicked,  ruby  eyes,  and  his  tail  curled  over  his 
arm.  Tiny  indeed,  yet  seeming  so  thoroughly 
alive  and  wide  awake  that  very  proper  people 
were  shocked  at  M:°s  Devereux's  choice  of  an 
ornament.  But  she  cared  nothing  for  that,  and 
was  seldom  to  be  seen  without  her  imp.  He 
depended  from  her  watch-chain,  or  served  as  a 
locket,  or  dangled  from  a  bracelet ;  and  many  a 
time  his  knowing  face  and  the  mocking  gleam 
of  his  ruby  orb  had  sorely  discomfited  Miss 
Devereux's  adorers,  as  she  cruelly  held  him  up 
at  some  critical  moment,  and  the  imp  appeared 
delighted  with  their  confusion. 

"Of  course  I'm  fond  of  you,"  returned 
Marian,  regardless  of  the  demon;  "you're  like 
a  wonderful  dream  to  me.  Living  here  so  qui 
etly  as  I  do,  and  reading  about  your  successes 
and  triumphs — " 

"Oh,  Sathanas!"  broke  in  Miss  Devereux, 
shaking  the  imp.  "-You  hear  her!  She's  only 
a  dear  little  goose,  after  all.  My  successes  and 
my  triumphs  —  how  pretty  it  sounds !  What 
was  I  laughing  at  ?" 

"I'm  waiting  for  you  to  tell  me,"  said  Marian. 

"Because  I  wondered,  since  I  enjoy  this 
quiet  so  much,  why  I  kept  on  living  in  a  whirl. 
Then  I  remembered  that  I  am  a  huge  idiot,  and 
should  get  tired  in  three  days  if  I  were  really 
obliged  to  stay  here." 

"Of  course  you  would;  you  are  not  meant 
for  a  life  like  this,"  pronounced  Marian,  with 
the  unhesitating  wisdom  of  her  years. 

"Not  meant  for  it,  kitten ?" asked  Miss  Dev 
ereux,  as  if  ready  to  dispute  the  matter. 

"Not  you,  indeed." 

"Then  I  wish  you'd  go  on  and  tell  me  what 
life  I  am  meant  for,"  she  said;  "because  I'm 
very  tired  of  the  one  I  have  tried,  and  even 
Sathanas,  with  all  his  wisdom,  is  unable  to  point 
out  any  other." 

"I  thought  you  had  every  thing  in  the  world 
to  make  you  happy,"  replied  Marian,  so  honest 
ly  that  Miss  Devereux  laughed  again — but  not 
gayly  this  time. 

"I  have  been  fed  on  sugar-plums  until  my 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


33 


digestion  is  ruined ;  I  shall  try  what  bread-and- 
milk  will  do  for  me.  I  am  so  pleased  this  first 
evening  that  I  really  believe  the  regimen  will 
prove  beneficial." 

"And  we  have  such  good  milk  and  bread," 
said  Marian,  with  perfect  seriousness ;  then  be 
gan  to  laugh  in  her  turn  and  to  color  likewise, 
but  both  blush  and  laughter  were  so  child-like 
that  Miss  Devereux  envied  her.  "  What  a  stu 
pid  I  am !"  the  girl  added ;  "I  take  every  thing 
literally."  > 

"That's  because  you  have  lived  among  sen 
sible  people  who  don't  talk  nonsense,"  returned 
Miss  Devereux;  "I  must  be  careful,  or  your 
dear  old  grandmother  will  think  me  an  utter 
monstrosity,  and  warn  me  off  for  fear  you  should 
be  contaminated." 

"Oh,  grandmamma  is  in  love  with  you  al 
ready — she  says  you  are  like  a  brilliant  meteor." 

"Like  fire-works  of  a  very  poor  sort,  I  should 
say,  with  more  smoke  than  flame,  and  it  chokes 
— it  chokes!" 

She  rose  in  an  impatient  way  she  had,  and 
walked  two  or  three  times  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"You  are  tired  of  sitting  in  the  house,"  said 
Marian. 

"Yes;  come  out  and  see  the  last  of  the 
twilight — always  the  prettiest  sight  in  England, 
except  yourself,  my  dear.  How  old  are  you, 
Marian  ?" 

"Past  eighteen." 

"And  I  am  twenty-two !  I  shall  be  a  fright 
fully  disagreeable  creature  soon." 

"Don't  call  yourself  names,  Helen." 

"  Oh,  but  I  shall !  If  you  only  felt  my  claws, 
as  a  good  many  people  have  done — you  see  I 
don't  scratch  you." 

"  Nor  any  body  else,  I  am  sure." 

"Much  you  know  about  it!  But  drop  the 
subject — I'm  tired  of  Helen  Devereux  and  ev 
ery  thing  connected  with  her,  only  I'm  such  a 
selfish  wretch  that  I  think  and  talk  of  nobody 
else." 

"Because  you  know  there  couldn't  be  a  pleas- 
anter  subject  to  the  people  who  love  you." 

"  Oh,  mouse,  mouse !  I  shall  kiss  you,  by  way 
of  punishment  for  your  outrageous  flattery." 

"Besides,  it's  true, "continued  Marian,  warm 
ly  returning  her  friend's  embrace ;  a  rarity,  for 
Miss  Devereux  was  not  demonstrative.  "You 
are  not  selfish,  and  you  are  always  doing  some 
thing  for  somebody." 

"If  it  costs  me  no  personal  trouble!  Ah, 
mouse,  I  perceive  my  faults  plainly  enough ;  the 
thing  is,  my  clear-sightedness  does  not  in  the 
least  help  me  to  cure  them." 

"How  hard  you  are  on  yourself,"  expostu 
lated  Marian;  "I  don't  like  it.  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  listening  to  some  third  person  abuse  my 
friend." 

"Oh,  don't  take  up  the  cudgels  in  Miss  Dev- 
3 


ereux's  defense — she's  not  worth  it.  Besides, 
it's  a  comfort  to  me  occasionally  to  tell  her  severe 
truths;  but  she'll  not  profit  by  them — I  know 
her  well." 

"  She  is  the  dearest,  best,  most  lovable — " 

"Selfish  mass  of  contradictions  that  ever  ex 
isted,"  interrupted  Helen.  "I  only  wonder  I 
don't  fall  apart  from  sheer  inconsistency.  What 
is  it  somebody  says  ? — '  To  know  the  right,  and 
still  the  wrong  pursue ' — and  that's  me,  my  dear ; 
that's  Helen  Devereux  to  the  life.  The  man 
must  have  been  inspired  with  a  spirit  of  proph 
ecy." 

"You  are  absurd,"  cried  Marian;  but  the 
young  woman  still  persevered  in  her  bad  opin 
ions  of  herself,  in  a  whimsical  fashion. 

Marian  refuted  her  statements  with  energy, 
and  they  argued  over  the  matter  until  they  al 
most  forgot  the  beauty  of  the  evening  which  they 
had  come  out  to  admire.  We  are  all  of  us  in 
clined  to  treat  Nature  in  that  fashion,  notwith 
standing  our  fine  theories  and  ability  to  quote 
poetry  in  honor  of  her  charms. 

I  must  tell  you  here  how  she  and  Marian  hap 
pened  to  be  acquainted,  lest  I  forget  it,  because 
there  is  no  mystery  about  the  fatality  which 
brought  the  heiress's  brilliant  life  within  reach 
of  the  young  girl's  quiet  existence. 

WThen  Marian  was  a  child  of  ten,  Mordaunt 
Payne  became  enamored  of  some  scheme  which 
was  to  make  his  fortune,  and  set  sail  for  Ameri 
ca,  accompanied  by  his  motherless  little  girl.  In 
those  days  Mrs.  Payne  lived  with  a  married 
daughter  in  Italy,  and  knew  nothing  of  her  son's 
intentions  until  she  received  a  letter  written  on 
the  day  he  sailed  ;  so  she  had  no  opportunity  to 
expostulate  upon  the  folly  of  his. taking  Marian 
with  him,  or  proposing  any  other  plan  in  regard 
to  her. 

Mordaunt  Payne  was  a  helpless,  hopeless  vis 
ionary,  and  had  been  all  his  days.  He  had  mar 
ried  a  pretty,  penniless  girl,  who  died  while  Mar 
ian  was  a  baby,  and  now  he,  having  done  the 
worst  that  he  could  for  himself  and  his  child  by 
wandering  off  to  a  foreign  land,  proceeded  to  die 
also,  and  leave  her  alone  among  strangers. 

Fortunately,  the  village  in  which  he  fell  ill  was 
near  the  country-seat  where  Helen  Devereux  and 
her  parents  were  passing  the  summer.  Helen's 
father  had  known  Payne  in  England,  and  of 
course  nothing  was  spared  that  could  conduce  to 
his  comfort  during  his  illness.  He  died  in  Mr. 
Devereux's  house,  and  the  news  of  his  death  was 
sent  to  the  poor  old  lady,  who  had  just  returned 
to  her  native  land  after  burying  her  only  daugh 
ter  in  Rome.  They  were  both  gone  now :  the 
boy  and  girl  whom  she  had  idolized  ;  the  man 
and  woman  of  whose  futures  she  had  expected  so 
much ;  which  she  had  lived  to  sec  prove  heart 
breaking  failures.  She  wrote  desiring  that  the 
little  Marian  should  be  sent  to  her,  but  it  was 
late  in  the  autumn  before  suitable  guardianship 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


could  be  found,  and  during  the  time  of  waiting 
she  remained  in  Mr.  Devereux's  house. 

Since  that  season  Helen  and  Marian  had  only 
met  two  or  three  times,  but  they  had  been  regu 
lar  correspondents,  careless  as  Miss  Devereux 
was  about  letters  where  other  people  were  con 
cerned.  There  was  no  one  of  her  own  sex  to 
whom  she  was  so  warmly  attached  as  to  this  girl. 
The  penalty  she  paid  for  her  wealth  and  grandeur 
was  an  inability  often  to  believe  in  the  sincerity 
of  her  friends ;  but  Marian's  truth  and  Marian's 
love  were  beyond  a  doubt,  and  Miss  Devereux 
sometimes  wondered  at  the  warmth  with  which 
she  returned  the  girl's  enthusiastic  devotion.  It 
was  so  difficult  to  be  greatly  in  earnest  about  any 
thing  in  these  days,  that  her  attachment  for  Mar 
ian  formed  a  stiil  greater  contrast  to  her  ordi 
nary  calm  estimation  of  those  with  whom  she 
was  thrown  in  contact.  She  clung  to  it  of  course 
the  more  fondly  pn  that  account.  She  wove 
dreams  for  Marian's  future,  and  gilded  it  with  a 
brightness  she  had  ceased  to  anticipate  for,  her 
own. 

Four  dreamy,  enchanted  weeks  went  by. 

Many  a  time  afterward  did  Helen  Devereux 
look  back  and  marvel  at  the  rest  and  happiness 
this  period  afforded  her.  It  was  nearly  Novem 
ber  now,  but  the  weather  remained  soft  and  mild 
in  the  Devonshire  valley,  and  so  bright  it  seemed 
inclined  to  prove  to  the  transatlantic  stranger 
that  the  diatribes  of  Englishmen  against  the  cli 
mate  of  their  island  home  were  base  slanders. 

Any  description  of  that  month  would  sound 
poor  and  meagre  enough.  The  girls  read  and 
sung  together,  took  long  walks,  drove  an  obsti 
nate  pony  through  the  green  lanes,  listened  to 
Mrs.  Payne's  Old-World  talk,  and  enjoyed  every 
moment.  A  beautiful  ancient  lady  was  Grand 
mamma  Payne ;  like  a  picture  on  antique  porce 
lain  which  has  kept  its  coloring,  but  grown  full 
of  curious  tiny  wrinkles.  She  was  thirty-fourth 
cousin  to  some  duke,  and  innocently  proud  of  her 
descent.  It  made  her  contented  and  happy  in 
spite  of  narrow  means  and  many  troubles.  But 
the  troubles  were  over  now,  thank  God,  and  Mar 
ian  possessed  a  genius  for  managing  the  moder 
ate  income  which  aided  it  to  go  twice  as  far  as 
it  had  ever  done  under  the  grandmother's  regime. 

To  Miss  Devereux's  eyes  the  cottage  was  like 
a  bit  out  of  a  pastoral  poem.  Every  thing  pos 
sessed  an  interest  and  beauty  for  her ;  even  the 
sleepy  village,  the  peaceful  landscape,  the  gossip 
of  the  rooks  in  the  oak-tree  near  her  bedroom 
window,  the  soft  music  of  Marian's  voice,  the 
quaint,  brain-cracked  ways  of  the  two  aged  serv 
ants,  John  and  Deborah,  who  ruled  the  house 
hold  and  tyrannized  somewhat  over  its  members, 
from  Mrs.  Payne  down  to  the  red-cheeked  lass 
who  filled  a  sort  of  "general  utility"  place  in  the 
kitchen.  Miss  Devereux  enjoyed  it  all,  and  felt 
each  day  more  and  more  as  if  she  had  stumbled 


into  a  fairy  story,  and  was  to  live  on  among  its 
enchantments  for  ever  and  ever. 

She  had  kept  her  whereabouts  a  secret,  and 
pledged  her  step-mother  to  strict  silence ;  so  she 
was  disturbed  neither  by  letters  begging  for  her 
return  to  the  common  world,  nor  by  visits  from 
troublesome  adorers,  who  might  have  been  tempt 
ed  into  wearying  her  had  they  gained  a  clue  to 
her  hiding-place. 

"It  is  too  pleasant  to  last,"  she  said  again 
and  again  to  Marian,  during  the  first  fortnight; 
but  of  late  she  had  given  herself  up  so  complete 
ly  to  the  charm  of  the  quiet,  that  she  had  ceased 
to  think  of  the  possibility  of  any  change. 

An  old  wound,  which  hurt  both  heart  and 
pride,  had  left  her  a  little  hard  and  cold,  too 
suspicious  of  herself  and  others  ;  but  its  trouble 
some  reminders  faded  during  this  season.  The 
aims  with  which  she  had  striven  to  fill  up  her  life 
since  that  blow  desolated  the  last  romantic  dream 
of  girlhood — the  whispers  of  worldly  ambition, 
the  determination  to  make  existence  sparkle 
bravely — all  these  objects  looked  very  distant 
and  very  petty  now.  She  just  glided  on  from 
day  to  day,  reveling  in  its  peace  as  she  had 
thought  she  could  never  again  enjoy  any  thing 
— the  usual  belief  of  young  people  before  they 
learn  that  life  holds  a  good  deal  even  after  youth 
ful  dreams  and  hopes  have  vanished. 

It  was  a  Thursday,  of  all  the  days  in  the  cal 
endar  the  very  one  upon  which  St.  Simon  gath 
ered  his  motley  company  about  his  hospitable 
board,  and  intoxicated  several  of  them  with  bub 
bles  more  potent  and  dangerous  than  his  Cham 
pagne. 

Miss  Devereux  and  Marian  had  been  out  for 
a  long  walk.  Strolling  homeward  through  the 
late  afternoon,  they  suddenly  encountered  the 
handsomest  man  Marian  had  ever  seen.  He 
was  just  coming  out  of  the  grounds  of  Denton 
Lodge,  a  charming  old  place,  seldom  visited  by 
its  owner,  and  which  had  not  chanced  to  find  a. 
tenant  during  the  past  two  years. 

They  met;  the  gentleman  did  a  neat  tableau 
of  surprise,  and  then  a  very  pretty  bit  of  enthusi 
astic  pleasure  at  sight  of  Miss  Devereux.  But 
Miss  Devereux  did  nothing  ;  had  she  been  born 
a  duchess  instead  of  a  Republican,  she  could  not 
have  appeared  more  composed. 

"I  do  wonder  if  I  am  dreaming  or  walking 
in  my  sleep,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"You  are  capable  of  it,"  returned  Miss  Dev 
ereux,  coolly,  "and  you  would  be  sure  to  wan 
der  where  you  had  no  right  to  go." 

"Ah,  your  malicious  remark  is  a  failure,"  he 
said;  "I  had  a  right  to  come  here,  for  I  had 
business  to  bring  me,  as  it  happens." 

"As  if  you  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word  ! 
But,  for  mercy's  sake,  stop  looking  so  absurdly 
astonished,  and  stop  trying  to  appear  so  ridicu 
lously  pleased,  and  tell  what  you  are  doing 
here." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


35 


"I  was  shutting  the  gate,"  said  he;  "  now  I 
am  staring  at  you  with  all  my  eyes,  and  wonder 
ing  if  you  are  a  vision." 

"It's  rude  to  stare,  and  I'll  tell  the  keeper  you 
have  been  trespassing,"  returned  she,  softening 
the  abruptness  of  her  words  somewhat  by  a  play 
ful  smile. 

"Acquaintance  with  benighted  Americans, 
who  know  nothing  about  the  laws  of  trespass, 
has  corrupted  my  morals,"  said  he.  "How 
do  you  do,  Miss  Devereux  ?  Will  you  shake 
hands  ?" 

"  I  think  not  till  I  know  what  you  have  been 
doing,"  she  answered,  eying  him  with  a  certain 
suspicion.  "Pray  how  does  it  happen  that, 
asleep  or  awake,  you  wandered  in  this  direc 
tion  ?" 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  see  my  old  aunt  at  Tor 
quay,"  he  said,  with  apparent  sincerity. 

"And  you. pass  through  the  Denton  grounds 
to  reach  it  ?"  asked  Miss  Devereux  ;  but,  though 
she  laughed,  her  voice  was  not  exactly  pleasant. 

"Remember  what  the  copy-books  say  about 
interrupting  people.  You  might  have  spared 
your  satirical  question.  My  friend  Normanton 
has  the  gout — " 

"Heaven  help  us!"  Miss  Devereux  broke  in 
again,  regardless  of  his  warning.  "The  man  is 
mad — raving !  Come,  Marian,  Jet's  run  home ; 
I've  no  doubt  he  bites.  But  I  must  be  civil  first. 
I  have  not  lost  my  wits,  though  he  has  his.  Miss 
Payne,  this  amiable  lunatic  rejoices  in  the  name 
of  Talbot  Castlemaine.  I  do  really  think  his  ab 
surd  behavior  has  driven  me  into  poetry !" 

Marian  was  so  utterly  bewildered  by  the  rapid 
fire  of  nonsense  the  two  had  kept  up  during  the 
last  three  minutes,  that  she  could  only  bow,  col 
or  beautifully,  and  shrink  into  herself.  Castle 
maine,  as  he  lifted  his  hat,  just  glanced  at  her 
long  enough  to  wonder  how  any  feminine  creat 
ure  could  get  so  pink  and  look  so  excessively 
pretty  in  the  operation. 

"And  your  friend  Normanton  has  the  gout," 
pursued  Miss  Devereux.  "Do  you  mean  to  go 
through  the  list  of  your  acquaintances'  ailments? 
What  an  odd  mania,  to  be  sure !" 

"  It  was  his  gout  that  brought  me  here." 

"You  ran  away  because  he  needed  help!" 

"I  scorn  your  aspersions!  He  wanted  me 
to  stop  and  have  a  peep  at  Denton  .Lodge ;  he 
thinks  of  hiring  it  for  the  winter,  as  Devonshire 
has  been  recommended  by  the  doctors.  Virtue 
has  been  its  own  reward  on  this  occasion.  The 
idea  of  my  meeting  you  in  this  out-of-the-way 
spot !  I'll  take  up  the  obliging  line  for  a  perma 
nency,  if  one  is  always  so  amply  repaid." 

Miss  Devereux's  face  cleared  magically.  He 
had  explained  his  appearance  so  naturally  and 
carelessly  that  she  could  exonerate  him  from  the 
charge  of  hunting  her ;  and,  since  the  meeting 
was  accidental,  could  be  glad  to  see  him.  In 
deed,  she  rather  marveled  if  it  were  an  inter 


position  of  Fate  in  the  man's  favor,  and,  if  so, 
whether  it  was  worth  her  while  to  heed  it. 

"  Shall  we  be  good-natured,  Marian,  and  take 
him  to  the  house  to  have  some  tea  ?"  she  asked, 
as  unconcernedly  as  if  the  odd  thought  which  I 
have  chronicled  had  not  flitted  through  her  brain. 

Marian's  presence  of  mind  was  not  sufficiently 
restored  to  enable  her  to  answer  readily,  but  Cas 
tlemaine  saved  her  any  trouble  by  saying, 

"Miss  Payne  would  not  be  so  unkind  as  to 
refuse.  Do  you  know,  I  find  that  I  must  stay 
all  night  in  the  village  ;  I  have  missed  my  train." 

"You  need  not  look  so  wretched  about  it," 
Miss  Devereux  observed,  "since  Marian  per 
mits  you  to  go  home  with  us.  Only  you  have 
had  no  dinner,  and  we  are  early  people  in  this 
region." 

"But  I  have;  I  was  so  ferociously  hungry  I 
attended  to  that  important  duty  as  soon  as  I  ar 
rived.  Please  don't  invent  excuses  for  sending 
me  off." 

"The  ingratitude  of  men!  I  was  trying  to 
find  one  for  letting  you  stay ;"  and  he  saw  by 
her  smile  that  she  had  entirely  recovered  her 
good-humor. 

"One  would  be  glad  to  stay  forever,  I  think," 
he  said.  "  This  valley  is  certainly  the  prettiest 
nook  in  all  Devonshire.  What  is  the  name  of 
that  fine  old  ruin  we  passed,  some  six  miles  off, 
Miss  Payne  ?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Marian. 

She  managed  to  reply,  and  he  continued  talk 
ing  to  her.  Marian  recollected  how  absurd  it 
was  to  be  shy  and  frightened,  and  scolded  her 
self  into  sufficient  composure  to  converse  easily, 
though  the  color  in  her  cheeks  was  still  high 
enough  and  lovely  enough  to  astonish  London 
eyes. 

Miss  Devereux  walked  on  before  them,  playing 
with  a  great  dog  which  had  bounded  out  of  the 
Denton  grounds  to  meet  her.  She  seemed  sud 
denly  to  have  grown  a  little  thoughtful,  and 
Marian  had  to  speak  twice  before  she  heard.  In 
truth,  she  could  not  decide  whether  she  was 
glad  or  sorry  at  Castlemaine's  unexpected  ar 
rival.  But  one  thing  she  determined  upon  the 
instant — there  must  be  no  folly  on  his  part  be 
cause  he  had  chanced  to  stray  into  her  neighbor 
hood.  However,  when  Marian  called  she  allowed 
the  pair  to  overtake  her,  and  presently  recovered 
her  usual  spirits. 

They  found  Grandmamma  Payne  waiting  for 
them  in  the  cozy  drawing-room.  Miss  Devereux 
presented  Castlemaine,  and  his  handsome  face 
and  charming  manners  won  the  old  lady's  heart 
immediately,  as  they  always  did  the  hearts  of 
women,  ancient  or  youthful.  She  recollected, 
too,  having  met  his  grandfather  ages  before, 
and  so  was  prepared  to  adopt  the  young  man 
as  an  acquaintance.  She  talked  a  good  deal, 
and  her  conversation  was  always  interesting. 
In  spite  of  belonging  to  the  later  portion  of 
this  generation,  Miss  Devereux  and  Castlemaine 


36 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


were  capable  of  civility  to  an  old  woman,  and 
thoroughly  enjoyed  her  cheerful  chat  and  rem 
iniscences  of  by-gone  days. 

This  evening  was  a  success,  and  Castlemaine 
appeared  in  a  new  light  to  Miss  Devereux.  He 
put  off  the  bored,  listless  ways  which  society  men 
in  these  days  seem  to  consider  the  supreme  of 
elegance,  and  conversed  naturally  and  well.  She 
was  gratified  too  by  his  appreciation  of  her  friends 
— she  would  scarcely  have  given  him  credit  for 
the  ability.  Then  his  tone  toward  herself  pleased 
her.  No  airs  of  homage  or  devotion,  or  other 
of  the  petty  arts  by  which  men  usually  felt  it 
their  duty  to  remind  her  that  she  was  an  heiress 
and  a  beauty — paltry  flatteries,  ineffably  weari 
some  to  her  keen  good  sense.  He  treated  her 
as  a  friend  whom  he  was  delighted  to  find  again  ; 
as  if  she  were  a  reasonable  human  creature  in 
stead  of  a  doll,  she  thought ;  and  the  reflection 
completed  her  satisfaction  at  the  encounter. 

So  they  all  talked  quietly  and  soberly;  and 
Miss  Devereux  seeing  how  much  grandma  and 
Marian  enjoyed  the  brightening  of  their  quiet 
his  presence  brought,  forgot  to  murmur  at  this 
troubling  of  the  seclusion,  any  break  upon  which 
she  had  dreaded. 

Grandmamma  was  compelled  to  keep  very 
early  hours ;  and,  after  she  had  gone  to  her  room, 
Miss  Devereux  and  Castlemaine  repaid  them 
selves  for  their  good  behavior  by  giving  free  rein 
to  their  unruly  spirits,  and  that  little  recluse 
Marian  listened  to  their  random  talk  till  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  dazzled  by  lightning.  But 
when  something  led  Castlemaine  to  speak  of 
Italy,  and  he  grew  earnest  in  answer  to  the  eager 
questions  in  her  eyes,  she  was  almost  vexed  with 
Miss  Devereux  for  spoiling  the  effect  of  his  pret 
tiest  sentences  by  jests  and  parodies  on  Byron. 

"  She  is  not  worthy  to  hear  about  the  charms 
of  Eome,  Miss  Payne,"  he  said,  laughing  good- 
naturedly.  "I  shall  ask  you  to  listen  to  me 
some  time  when  she  is  not  near. " 

"I  know  the  reality,  you  see,"  Miss  Devereux 
replied,  "  and  am  not  to  be  deluded  like  Marian." 

"I'd  rather  keep  my  illusion,  if  it  is  one,  in 
regard  to  Italy,"  said  Marian,  courageously, 
though  somewhat  afraid  of  her  friend's  satire. 

"Quite  right,  my  dear,"  Miss  Devereux  ob 
served  ;  ' '  keep  all  your  illusions  as  long  as  you 
can — they  will  go  fast  enough." 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Castlemaine; 
"you  talk  like  a  modern  female  Diogenes." 

"Never  mind  what  I  talk  like,"  she  said; 
"you'll  have  no  more  of  my  wisdom  to-night. 
It  is  high  time  for  you  to  go  back  to  the  solitude 
of  your  inn." 

"And  at  what  hour  in  the  morning  may  I 
call  ?"  he  asked,  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  speaking  with  a  graceful  eagerness. 

"Have  you  forgotten  the  affectionate  elderly 
relative  who  is  expecting  you  with  such  impa 
tience  ?"  demanded  Miss  Devereux. 


"  I  never  said  any  thing  about  her  impatience," 
he  replied. 

"But  it  could  not  be  otherwise — the  return 
of  such  a  delightful  prodigal  must  be  awaited 
with  the  greatest  anxiety,"  retorted  she,  ironic 
ally. 

"I  have  set  no  day  for  my  arrival — shall  not 
be  looked  for  before  Saturday.  You  would  not 
be  cruel  enough  to  drive  me  away  immediately 
from  this  pretty  place — " 

"Oh!  I  should  be  conscience-stricken,  know 
ing  how  ardent  an  admirer  of  nature  you  are," 
she  interrupted. 

"  Especially  if  I  can  study  her  in  your  society 
and  Miss  Payne's !  Come,  be  good-natured,  and 
say  that  I  need  not  be  banished  to-morrow." 

"  Stay,  by  all  means." 

"Now  that  is  very  nice  of  you — " 

"To-morrow  I  shall  be  ill  with  a  headache, 
and  Marian  is  going  off  on  a  visit  with  grand 
mamma." 

"Why,  Helen!"  said  Marian,  reproachfully, 
then  colored  at  having  taken  her  friend's  non 
sense  seriously. 

"  Miss  Payne's  tender  conscience  betrays  you," 
added  Castlemaine. 

"No;  she's  only  afraid  my  rigid  truthfulness 
may  hurt  your  feelings — not  aware  yet  how  cal 
lous  and  hardened  you  are." 

' '  Silent  resignation  is  the  only  way  to  receive 
such  slanders,  Miss  Payne,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Helen  always  teases  the  people  she  likes," 
Marian  answered. 

"What  a  highly  -  favored  individual  I  must 
be !"  he  laughed.  "So  it  is  decided  that  I  may 
stay  ?" 

He  looked  at  Miss  Devereux — she  held  up  the 
enameled  devil,  whose  eyes  shone  vividly  in  the 
lamp-light. 

"  Sathanas  is  silent,"  she  cried,  giving  the  imp 
a  shake. 

"And  silence  always  gives  consent." 

"  After  a  platitude  like  that,  you  had  really 
better  depart!  Sathanas  means  his  silence  to 
remind  me  what  his  opinion  has  always  been  in 
regard  to  you." 

"  Rather  in  my  favor,  I  should  think,  that  the 
demon  does  not  like  me." 

"But  such  a  wise  demon !" 

"I  think  he  winked  at  me,"  cried  Castle 
maine;  "he  is  laughing  at  your  misinterpreta 
tion  of  his  opinions." 

He  drew  closer  to  her  under  pretense  of  study 
ing  the  imp,  and  his  face  looked  so  handsome  in 
its  earnest  appeal  that  it  would  not  have  been 
easy  for  feminine  nature  to  remain  obdurate. 

"Until  Saturday,  then,"  said  she.  "Ketire, 
Sathanas  — I  have  proved  false  to  your  coun 
sels!" 

"That  will  give  me  time  to  write  to  Norman- 
ton,  and  receive  his  answer,"  observed  Castle 
maine. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


37 


"  Ample  time,  I  have  no  doubt,"  returned  Miss 
Deverettx,  with  a  mocking  laugh.  "  Good-night, 
Don  Quixote." 

lie  bowed  over  her  hand,  uttered  his  farewell 
to  Marian,  and  departed.  He  saw  that  Miss 
Devereux  did  not  fully  credit  the  stoiy  of  his 
straying  into  her  neighborhood  merely  on  his 
way  to  some  other  place,  and  to  oblige  an  invalid 
friend.  He  thought,  if  it  were  possible,  he  should 
like  to  punish  her  by  flirting  with  the  pretty  wood 
nymph,  Marian,  then  remembered  it  would  not 
be  safe. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose;  if  he  had  any 
chance  with  the  heiress,  he  must  make  the  best 
use  possible  of  it  without  delay.  During  the 
London  season  he  had  succeeded  in  believing 
himself  somewhat  fascinated  by  her,  and  fancied 
that  if  she  were  not  so  horribly  rich  he  should  be 
downright  in  love.  But  now — well,  seeing  her 
again  did  not  produce  the  effect  he  had  anticipa 
ted.  She  was  so  very  dashing  and  brilliant ;  she 
seemed  so  earthly  and  worldly  by  the  side  of  that 
sweet-faced  Marian,  who  looked  spiritual  enough 
to  unfold  angelic  wings  and  float  away  at  any 
moment. 

But  what  had  he  to  do  with  angels  ?  He  ask 
ed  himself  the  question,  and  laughed  out  till  the 
echoes  of  his  bitter  merriment  struck  his  own 
ears  strangely.  He  had  crossed  the  common  to 
ward  the  village  while  thinking  these  things,  and 
he  took  them,  and  still  more  sombre  reflections, 
into  the  quiet  of  his  chamber,  where  he  sat  for  a 
long  time  smoking  innumerable  pipes  and  staring 
absently  at  the  moon,  which  gazed  down  upon  him 
in  cold  surprise. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  house,  Miss  Dever 
eux  announced  that  she  was  at  death's  door  from 
fatigue,  and  the  two  young  women  went  upstairs. 

"I'm  past  speech,"  continued  Miss  Devereux, 
as  they  reached  the  landing.  "Kiss  me — good 
night,  kitten :  sleep  so  soundly  that  you  will  not 
even  dream." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that  for  any  thing,"  returned 
Marian ;  "  I  always  feel  that  I  have  been  cheated 
when  I  can't  remember  my  dreams." 

"Do  you?"  exclaimed  Miss  Devereux  with  a 
shiver,  and  held  up  her  candle  to  peep  at  Marian's 
face.  "  Then  hosts  of  visions  to  you,"  she  added, 
rather  sadly, "and  good-night." 

"But  don't  you  want  me  to  undo  your  hair?" 
Marian  asked,  for  she  often  arranged  Miss  Dev- 
ereux's  multitudinous  tresses,  which  were  a  beau 
tiful  gold  color,  without  any  aid  from  art. 

But  Helen  needed  no  assistance,  kissed  her 
friend  again,  said,  "What  a  pretty  kitten  you 
are ! "  and  passed  on  to  her  own  room. 

Marian  was  not  sorry  to  find  herself  alone, 
though  she  wondered  at  Helen's  profession  of 
weariness  ;  she  felt  so  exhilarated  and  pleasantly 
restless  that  she  would  have  liked  to  sit  up  all 
night.  So  she,  too,  remained  at  her  window,  and 
watched  the  moon  float  across  the  pale-blue  sky ; 


remembered  all  that  Castlemaine  had  said  about 
Rome,  and  dreamed  herself  leagues  away  into  a 
visionary  world,  as  one  can  at  eighteen.  Ah  me ! 

It  appeared  Miss  Devereux  had  no  mind  to 
indulge  in  any  sort  of  Juliet  performance.  She 
found  that  the  servant  had  forgotten  to  close  the 
shutters,  and  she  hastened  to  bar  out  the  soft 
radiance  with  some  broken  speech  by  no  means 
complimentary  to  the  orb  of  night — indeed,  she 
addressed  it  as  that  "odious  planet,"  and  re 
quested  it  not  to  stare  at  her  so  persistently. 
Then  she  shook  Sathanas,  and  called  him  bad 
names  too,  and  sat  down  to  read  a  while,  hoping 
that  her  novel  would  produce  a  somnolent  effect. 
But  it  was  a  story  about  youth  and  love — happy 
love — in  which  a  woman,  young,  handsome,  and 
rich  as  herself,  won  and  kept  the  affection  of  a 
true,  noble  man  ;  and  at  length  Miss  Devereux 
flung  the  volume  aside  in  disgust. 

"It  is  as  unreal  and  false  as  any  thing  can 
be,"  she  thought.  "Nobody's  first  love  was 
ever  happy.  Love — bah !  where  do  you  find  it 
out  of  a  romance  ?  Sathanas,  I'm  going  to  bed. 
What  a  comfort  not  to  be  bothered  by  a  stupid 
maid.  I  think  I'll  always  live  in  cottages  too 
small  to  accommodate  any  such  grand  person 
age.  I  wonder  if  Castlemaine's  coming  was 
accidental  —  if  I  thought  it  was  not!"  She 
stopped  short  in  her  meditations,  and  began  to 
prepare  for  bed;  but  had  Talbot  Castlemaine 
been  able  to  see  her  face  at  that  moment,  he 
would  have  been  more  than  ever  convinced  of 
the  necessity  of  proceeding  with  great  caution  in 
the  carrying-out  of  his  plans. 

In  spite  of  her  determination  to  be  staid  and 
sensible,  Miss  Devereux  did  not  gain  much  by 
her  commonplace  performance.  She  laid  her 
head  on  the  pillow ;  but  just  as  she  tried  to  fan 
cy  herself  falling  asleep,  she  discovered  that  her 
thoughts  had  wandered  away  back  into  the  past, 
and  were  tormenting  her  with  visions  of  what 
might  have  been,  but  was  not.  Then  rose 
Gregory  Alleyne's  image,  palpable  and  living  be 
fore  her ;  when  she  reached  that,  Miss  Devereux 
flew  Into  such  a  rage  that  poetry  and  pain  were 
quite  forgotten.  She  sat  up  in  bed  for  a  few 
moments  to  chill  herself  into  rationality,  then 
lay  down  again,  closed  her  eyes,  and  began  to 
say  over  and  over,  again,  in  a  monotonous  under 
tone, 

"Twice  one  are  two — twice  two  are  four — 
twice  five  are  ten — twice  six  are  twelve.  Some 
body  vows  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  is — 
no  matter !  I'll  go  through  the  whole  multipli 
cation-table  even  if  I  dream  that  I  am  a  dog 
eared  arithmetic,  rather  than  be  a  fool.  Three 
times  one  are  three — three  times  two  are  six — " 

But  I  am  afraid  she  got  into  the  twelves  before 
sleep  came.  Great  lady  though  she  might  be, 
there  was  one  blessing  all  her  money  could  not 
buy — the  ability  to  slumber  easily  and  be  visited 
by  pleasant  dreams. 


38 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     BEGINNING. 

THE  morning  after  his  meeting  with  Miss 
Devereux  and  Marian,  Talbot  Castlemaine  ap 
peared  at  the  cottage  as  early  as  propriety  would 
permit.  He  had  risen  at  an  hour  with  which  he 
had  a  slight  waking  acquaintance  since  a  season 
in.  his  boyhood  spent  at  a  public  school.  That 
penance  was  of  short  duration,  however.  He 
found  it  no  difficult  matter  to  persuade  his  silly 
mother  that  the  confinement  would  prove  fatal 
to  his  health,  and  rendered  himself  so  obnoxious 
to  his  instructors  that  they  were  glad  to  be  rid 
of  him  on  any  terms.  In  fact,  Lady  Laura's 
maternal  solicitude  was  roused  just  in  time  to 
relieve  the  dons  from  the  necessity  of  informing 
her  ladyship  that  they  desired  to  relinquish  the 
guardianship  of  her  young  hopeful.  Henceforth 
Master  Talbot  pursued  his  studies  under  the  care 
of  a  tutor  who  contrived  to  propitiate  both  moth 
er  and  son,  and  was  about  as  dangerous  a  com 
panion  as  the  youth  could  have  found.  But 
Lady  Laura  believed  in  him  entirely,  because  he 
flattered  her,  and  assured  her  that  Talbot  was  a 
genius.  The  tutor  and  pupil  even  paid  a  visit 
to  the  Continent  together,  and  it  was  at  that  ear 
ly  age  Talbot  formed  his  acquaintance  with  a 
certain  world  in  Paris  and  divers  German  spas — 
haunts  where  he  had  since  become  so  famous. 

Later,  of  course,  there  came  a  sojourn  at  Cam 
bridge,  and  before  long  a  rustication,  and  as  Lady 
Laura  died  about  this  period,  Talbot  never  re 
membered  that  for  a  while  he  had  dreamed  of 
returning  to  the  university,  and  achieving  noble 
triumphs  to  atone  for  his  temporary  disgrace. 
He  had  always  preserved  a  portion  of  that  ability 
to  repent  his  errors ;  but,  instead  of  serving  any 
good  purpose,  it  helped  to  make  him  a  more  hard 
ened  sinner,  from  his  constantly  working  on  his 
own  sympathies  through  this  faculty  of  regret 
ting  his  misdeeds. 

He  had  not  risen  so  early  this  morning  from 
any  desire  to  enjoy  its  loveliness,  though  capable 
of  appreciating  and  talking  eloquently  about  it 
if  the  occasion  offered  ;  nor  was  his  desire  to  see 
Miss  Devereux  so  strong  that  it  deprived  him  of 
sleep.  But  life  was  not  easy  just  then  to  the 
reckless  man.  An  attempt,  during  his  visit  to 
the  Continent,  to  soften  once  more  thq  heart  of 
his  old  relative  had  proved  a  failure.  He  was 
beset  with  debts  and  duns  to  an  extent  which 
rendered  some  prompt  action  necessary.  When 
he  did  at  last  slumber,  he  was  haunted  by  such 
evil  dreams  that  he  almost  thought  himself  on 
the  verge  of  a  fever.  Marian's  pretty  face  in 
truded  ;  Miss  Devereux  was  mistily  mixed  up 
with  his  visions.  There  was  another  person  still, 
Fanny  St.  Simon,  and  why  she  should  come 
when  he  had  scarcely  thought  of  her  for  ages 
was  more  than  he  could  imagine.  But  there  the 
three  women  were,  and  some  awful  danger  loom 


ed  near.  Sometimes  he  was  endeavoring  to  save 
Marian,  and  Fanny  St.  Simon  would  stand  be 
tween.  Sometimes,  to  preserve  himself,  he  had 
to  forsake  both  and  follow  Miss  Devereux,  and 
was  conscious  of  hating  her.  But  whatever  he 
did,  he  could  not  get  away  from  the  vague  horrors 
which  pursued.  Even  when  he  tried  to  doze  aft 
er  daylight,  the  nightmares  would  not  relinquish 
their  prey,  though  he  had  flung  aside  the  curtains 
and  let  the  bright  autumn  sunshine  into  the  room, 
and  was  sufficiently  awake  to  know  where  he  was, 
and  realize  his  own  absurdity. 

So  he  was  glad  to  get  up  at  an  hour  which 
gained  him  the  golden  opinions  of  the  active 
landlady,  who  remarked  to  her  husband  on  hear 
ing  his  bell  "that  she  knowed  he  was  a  gentle 
man  born  and  bred ;  it  was  only  them  dratted 
bagsmen  that  laid  abed  till  noon  in  the  country." 

He  had  left  his  man  in  London,  so  the  opera 
tion  of  dressing  had  to  be  gone  through  unaided, 
an  additional  trial,  which  might  have  irritated  a 
less  indolent  wretch  than  Talbot.  But  he  put 
his  ill-humor  down  to  the  score  of  his  bad  dreams, 
and  blamed  the  innocent  females  who  had  in 
truded  into  them. 

"Blessed  if  I'm  not  always  haunted  by  the 
St.  Simon  when  there  is  trouble  ahead,"  he 
thought;  "  I've  remarked  it  several  times.  Poor 
Fan — well,  I  behaved  quite  decently  where  she 
was  concerned — I  have  always  congratulated 
myself  on  that.  A  woman  to  have  gone  mad 
for,  if  she  had  been  somebody  else's  wife !  Dear 
me,  what  improper  thoughts  for  the  country! 
That  old  sparrow  on  the  window-sill  is  looking  at 
me  in  as  much  disgust  as  if  he  were  the  parson 
disguised." 

He  laughed,  whistled  to  the  bird,  and  got  his 
amiability  back ;  but  it  was  too  early  to  find  an 
appetite,  much  to  the  landlady's  distress.  He 
had  lived  too  long  on  the  Continent  for  an  En 
glish  breakfast  to  be  possible.  Good  Mrs.  Eoper 
had  very  watery  conceptions  of  coffee,  and  Tal 
bot  hated  tea  as  he  did  an  English  Sunday,  and 
numerous  other  institutions  (to  employ  a  bit  of 
expressive  American  slang)  of  his  native  land. 

When  he  reached  the  cottage,  he  found  Miss 
Devereux  and  Marian  on  the  veranda,  just  ready 
to  go  for  an  early  stroll. 

"Still  walking  in  your  sleep,  Sir  Galahad!" 
was  Miss  Devereux's  mocking  salutation.  "  Cer 
tainly,  awake  you  would  never  appear  at  this 
hour.  I  thought  you  would  come  for  breakfast 
about  our  tea-time." 

"I  am  sure  Miss  Payne  will  not  credit  your 
slanderous  aspersions,"  he  said,  bowing  to  Marian 
over  Miss  Devereux's  hand. 

Marian  thought  her  friend's  laughing  appella 
tion  very  appropriate  for  the  handsome  man. 
He  looked  to  her  like  one  of  the  portraits  of 
medircval  knights  at  Denham  Lodge  stepped  out 
from  its  frame  to  take  the  air,  only  in  a  modern 
dress  so  as  not  to  attract  too  much  attention. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


39 


"We  were  going  up  on  the  hill  to  do  a  little  [ 
Ruskinesque  business — study  the  clouds,  and  so 
forth,"  Miss  Devereux  said,  after  more  merry 
talk.     "Your  big  stick  will  be  a  protection,  if 
you  are  none.     Marian  walks  about  in  constant 
fear  of  Farmer  Dobson's  red  bull.      The  said ! 
animal  lives  in  a  field  two  miles  off,  and  can't  get 
out  of  it ;  but  Marian  expects  to  meet  him  all 
the  same  wherever  she  turns." 

"  I  promise  to  prevent  any  Europa  escapade," 
Castlemaine  answered,  brandishing  his  stick. 

"Please  don't  talk  like  a  page  out  of  Mang- 
tiall's  questions,"  returned  Miss  Devereux. 
"Mrs.  Payne  does  not  consider  classical  allu 
sions  proper.  Besides,  what's  more  important, 
I  am  dreadfully  ignorant,  and  don't  understand 
them.  I  suppose  it  was  John  Bull  wanted  to 
run  away  with  Europa — he'd  better  be  content  to 
take  care  of  Ireland  and  India — he  is  too  old  for 
frolics." 

"And  keep  an  eye  on  those  rebellious  bucca 
neering  Americans,"  said  Castlemaine. 

"He  will  need  both,  my  friend,  and  a  pair  of 
spectacles  into  the  bargain,  and  then  they'll  out 
wit  him, "replied  Miss  Devereux,  complacently. 

"The  Yankee  idea;  friendly  statesmanship," 
said  he. 

"How  often  must  I  tell  you  that  word  only 
applies  to  New  England, "said  Miss  Devereux, 
rejecting  the  title  with  true  Knickerbocker  con 
tempt.  "Why  don't  you  call  us  Comanches, 
and  be  done?" 

"I  will  with  pleasure,  for  it  sounds  very 
dreadful,  though  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what 
it  means." 

They  spent  a  pleasant  morning,  in  spite  of  the 
incessant  skirmishing  between  the  two,  which 
puzzled  Marian,  and  at  first  almost  made  her 
fancy  they  were  not  good  friends.  But  they 
were  very  kind  to  her,  and  she  gradually  forgot 
her  shyness,  and  was  so  charming  in  her  childish 
way  that,  as  soon  as  she  found  an  opportunity, 
while  Marian  was  busy  over  ferns  and  mosses, 
Miss  Devereux  called  on  Castlemaine  to  admit 
that  she  was  a  delightful  creature,  and  worth 
Studying. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  honestly  enough  ;  "  it  is  like 
turning  from  a  parterre  of  brilliant  flowers  to  a 
green  dell,  to  look  from  you  to  her." 

Miss  Devereux  was  watching  Marian,  and  did 
not  notice  the  sigh  which  followed  the  words. 
He  was  such  a  capricious,  impressionable  wretch 
that  for  the  moment  he  wished  he  had  been  an 
other  sort  of  man,  and  that  destiny  had  flung 
this  pretty  wood-flower  in  his  path,  with  leisure 
to  enjoy  its  charms. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  house  Mrs.  Payne 
was  in  her  room  with  one  of  her  headaches,  old 
Deborah  said,  speaking  of  the  malady  as  if  it 
were  a  friendly  neighbor  who  had  dropped  in 
for  a  visit.  Marian  went  up  to  see  her,  and  left 
the  pair  alone :  they  were  never  at  a  loss  for  con 


versation,  those  two.  Castlemaine  knew  that  he 
ought  not  to  waste  even  these  first  days;  he 
ought  to  secure  his  fortune  at  once,  if  it  were 
possible.  But  it  was  a  great  effort — much  hard 
er  to  make  than  he  had  expected.  He  admired 
this  beautiful  woman,  yet  somehow  she  appealed 
less  to  his  fancy  than  almost  any  one  he  had  ever 
met.  As  an  excuse  for  dilatoriness,  he  told  him 
self  it  would  be  dangerous  so  soon  to  attack  the 
citadel  openly.  She  was  very  suspicious,  and 
would  believe  that  his  finding  her  had  not  been 
accidental,  and  in  such  case  he  was  sure  to 
lose. 

While  they  sat  on  the  veranda  the  postman 
appeared  with  the  letters.  They  proved  to  be 
for  Miss  Devereux  only :  Marian  and  her  grand 
mother  were  not  troubled  with  correspondents. 

"If  you  do  not  read  them,  I  must  go  away," 
he  said. 

So  she  opened  the  envelopes  indolently,  one 
after  one.  Coming  to  the  last,  she  said, 

"Ah,  this  is  from  Paris.  I  don't  know  the 
writing," 

It  was  from  St.  Simon,  proposing  to  buy  her 
Nevada  lands — a  plausibly  written  epistle,  but 
Miss  Devereux  smiled  over  it. 

"Have  you  forgotten  Fanny  St.  Simon  ?"  she 
asked,  suddenly. 

Castlemaine  absolutely  started.  While  she 
read  her  letters  he  had  been  recalling  his  wretch 
ed  dreams,  and  the  name  she  uttered  was  actu 
ally  in  his  mind. 

"What  made  you  think  of  her?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I  have  a  letter  from  her  uncle. 
What  a  delightful  man  he  is  —  if  one  did  not 
know  him." 

"  I  met  Miss  St,  Simon  the  day  I  came  through 
Paris,"  he  said,  composedly.  "She  was  hand 
somely  dressed,  and  as  gay  as  ever." 

"St.  Simon  has  been  in  America.  I  fancy 
he  must  have  got  hold  of  money  in  some  way," 
pursued  Miss  Devereux. 

"What  an  absurd  soul  the  wife  was:  what 
did  they  call  her? — the  Tortoise.  I  always  re 
member  them  pleasantly,  because  it  was  at  their 
house  I  met  you." 

"  How  pretty !  Yes,  I  was  several  months 
with  them,  the  year  before  the  siege.  How,  I 
can  not  imagine,  but  my  father  left  St.  Simon 
one  of  my  trustees.  I  wanted  to  come  to  Eu 
rope,  and  mamma  was  detained  about  some  bus 
iness  of  her  own.  St.  Simon  was  in  New  York, 
and  proposed  that  I  should  sail  with  him,  and 
stay  with  his  family  in  Paris  till  the  mother  could 
follow." 

"And  you  did?" 

"No,"  laughed  she,  "we  quarreled  soon  after 
I  met  you  there.  Don't  you  remember  I  went 
and  staid  with  the  Minturns  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  said,  recollecting  perfectly,  for 
he  had  always  wondered  if  he  had  any  share  in 
the  misunderstanding.  "  Did  the  brilliant  niece 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


prove  a  troublesome  companion  ?"  he  asked,  in 
differently,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  No,  she  hated  me  ;  I  never  knew  why.  Bnt 
she  was  always  gay  and  good-natured.  Mr.  St. 
Simon  and  I  disagreed.  It  is  an  old  story,  not 
worth  telling.  I  was  so  near  my  majority  that 
I  did  not  choose  to  take  his  advice  about  certain 
business  matters." 

She  refrained  from  explaining  that  she  had  be 
come  acquainted  with  St.  Simon's  real  charac 
ter;  had  actually  discovered — or,  at  least,  cir 
cumstances  convinced  her — that  he  was  trying  to 
use  her  money,  either  meaning  deliberately  to 
swindle  or  to  obtain  a  hold  of  her  fortune,  which 
would  enable  him  to  carry  out  some  personal 
scheme  he  chanced  to  have  in  hand. 

Miss  Devereux  had  never  told  the  story  to  any 
one,  and,  when  she  left  his  roof,  good-naturedly 
led  people  to  suppose  it  was  her  intention,  on 
coming  to  Paris,  to  spend  a  portion  of  the  time 
with  the  Minturns.  But  St.  Simon  knew  that 
she  more  than  suspected  him,  though  he  insisted 
on  preserving  the  most  friendly  relations  so  far 
as  appearances  went,  and  forced  Fanny  to  do 
the  same,  a  difficult  task,  for  Fanny's  original 
hatred  of  her,  roused  by  Miss  Devereux's  wealth 
and  success,  had  grown  to  really  appalling  pro 
portions  when  the  young  lady  unconsciously 
came  between  her  and  her  sole  golden  dream. 

From  the  first,  Fanny  had  known  that  her  love 
for  Talbot  Castlemaine  was  little  short  of  insan 
ity  ;  but  it  was  Miss  Devereux's  appearance  which 
effectually  wakened  her.  Talbot  told  her  frankly 
that  he  meant  to  win  the  heiress,  and  did  drawing- 
room  theatricals  over  the  hard  fate  which  render 
ed  it  impossible  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  his  heart. 
It  was  true  enough  that  he  had  indulged  in  one 
of  his  wild  passions  where  Fanny  was  concerned  ; 
the  creature  fascinated  him,  as  she  did  most  peo 
ple  who  came  in  her  way.  Her  memory  kept  a 
hold  upon  his  fancy  to  this  hour,  entirely  distinct 
from  the  numberless  loves  which  before  and  since 
had  occupied  him.  This  thing  was  certain — 
whosoever  the  woman  might  be  that  linked  her 
self  for  life  to  Talbot  Castlemaine — Miss  Dever 
eux  or  another  —  that  woman,  if  she  valued  her 
peace,  would  do  well  to  keep  her  husband  aloof 
from  the  possibility  of  falling  within  reach  of  Fan 
ny  St.  Simon's  influence.  But  Miss  Devereux 
had  not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  the  truth ; 
Fanny  had  carefully  guarded  her  secret.  So  now 
the  American  passed  carelessly  from  the  subject, 
and  put  St.  Simon's  letter  aside.  Indeed,  she 
forgot  it  for  some  time,  and  was  unintentionally 
impolite,  leaving  him  without  an  answer,  until  he 
felt  uncertain  whether  to  curse  the  post  or  her  in 
solence,  as  he  termed  it;  and,  to  be  secure  of 
touching  the  real  offender,  cursed  both  with  pro 
digious  energy. 

When  Marian  came  down-stairs  Castlemaine 
was  gone. 

"I  sent  him  off,"  Miss  Devereux  said, "be 


cause  it  was  nearly  the  dinner-hour,  and  I  could 
not  have  him  stop  to  bother." 

"  Grandmamma  told  me  to  invite  him,"  Mar 
ian  answered.  ' '  She  said  she  wanted  to  be  nice 
to  any  friend  of  yours." 

"  Oh,  thanks — she  is  very  good ;  but  we  can't 
harrow  Deborah's  soul  by  having  him  to  dinner 
every  day.  We'll  give  him  cups  of  tea  now  and 
then  ;  by-the-way,  he  hates  it,  so  it  will  be  a  neat 
little  penance  for  him." 

But  Marian  had  no  wish  the  dreamy-eyed  man 
should  do  penance  in  that  house ;  and  directly 
after  their  early  meal  she  hunted  up  a  little  cafe- 
tiere,  and  initiated  Deborah  into  the  mysteries 
of  cafe  noir.  The  lesson  was  the  cause,  almost, 
of  a  misunderstanding  between  the  two ;  for  Deb 
orah  declared  it  was  a  sin  to  waste  so  much 
Mocha  to  make  one  tiny  cup. 

"And  it's  a  heathener  way,  and,  in  my  opinion, 
a  Frencher,"  cried  Deborah,  when  Marian  insist 
ed.  "He's  a  handsome  enough  chap,  and  I'm 
willing  to  cosset  Miss  Devereux's  friends ;  but  it 
an't  Christian  to  go  a-drinking  coffee  without 
milk,  and  as  black  as  John's  Sunday  hat ;  and  so 
I  say  and  certify  to." 

But  she  could  not  have  the  heart  seriously  to 
oppose  Marian;  and  that  evening  Castlemaine 
was  treated  to  a  cup  of  coffee  which  might  have 
led  him  to  fancy  himself  in  the  Cafe  Anglais. 

"Deborah  never  managed  this,"  Miss  Dever 
eux  averred.  "Ah,  mouse,  I  know  why  you 
crept  out  a  while  ago!" 

Marian  colored,  but  did  not  reply.  She  met 
Castlemaine's  eyes,  and  felt  that  the  glance  would 
be  sufficient  reward  even  for  worse  suffering  than 
that  of  her  scalded  fingers,  over  which,  in  her 
nervous  haste,  she  had  poured  a  few  drops  of 
boiling  water. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,"  Castlemaine  said 
presently  in  a  low  voice,  while  Miss  Devereux 
was  talking  with  Mrs.  Payne,  who  had  just  en 
tered.  "I  think  this  place  must  be  an  enchant 
ed  valley,  shut  in  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  I 
hope  you  are  chief  enchantress,  and  have  de 
stroyed  the  clue,  so  that  I  shall  never  have  to 
wander  out." 

She  answered  laughingly  —  she  was  growing 
at  ease  with  him ;  but  he  thought  he  had  seen 
nothing  so  pretty  in  ten  years  as  her  blush  and 
her  shy,  grateful  eyes.  He  knew  that  he  had  no 
business  to  look  at  her  in  this  way — to  make  his 
playful  words  seem  to  mean  so  much  ;  but  it  was 
difficult  to  resist.  He  meant  to  be  very  wise ; 
he  had  a  hard  part  to  play  already  ;  he  must  not 
run  the  risk  of  annoying  Miss  Devereux  by  any 
trifling  with  Marian.  Not  that  she  would  be 
jealous — he  knew  she  did  not  care  enough  for 
him  to  indulge  in  that  feeling — but  inexorably 
unforgiving  to  the  slightest  shadow  cast  over 
Marian's  peace. 

Besides,  he  was  done  with  sentimental  follies. 
Hereafter  he  intended  to  regard  the  prosaic  side 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


41 


of  life,  could  he  only  secure  the  good  which  the 
gods  promised.  If  Miss  Devereux  took  him,  he 
would  try  to  become  a  pattern  husband ;  avoid 
Paiis  and  the  gaming-table ;  devote  himself  to 
what  people  called  a  rational  existence ;  turn 
country  gentleman  ;  cultivate  a  stomach  and  oth 
er  virtues. 

It  looked  rather  dreary,  but  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done.  Money  he  must  have ;  the  last 
few  months  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with 
too  many  dismal  chances  for  him  to  hesitate.  It 
was  equally  certain  that  if  he  won  Miss  Dever- 
enx's  millions,  he  must  to  a  reasonable  extent 
get  beyond  the  reach  of  temptation,  else  all  her 
available  wealth  would  go  as  rapidly  as  the  mod 
erate  means  left  him  by  his  mother. 

He  must  marry  the  heiress.  He  wondered, 
as  he  looked  at  her,  why  the  prospect  pleased 
him  so  little ;  it  was  like  his  idiocy,  he  thought. 
It  must  be  done  soon,  too  ;  he  was  actually  ruin 
ed,  and  his  uncle  would  help  him  no  further. 
He  marveled  fretfully  why  that  baronetcy  and 
comfortable  fortune  in  his  family  could  not  have 
belonged  to  him  instead  of  those  distant  cousins, 
with  three  stout  lives  and  the  probability  speedily 
of  another  heir  to  shut  out  even  a  gleam  of  hope. 

Miss  Devereux's  voice  roused  him  from  his 
reverie,  and  he  hastened  away  from  his  useless, 
moody  reflections. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
ROLAND'S   DREAM. 

THE  day  after  the  dinner-party  Roland  Spencer 
appeared  again  at  the  pretty  apartment  in  the 
Avenue  Friedland.  Fanny  had  told  him  he 
might  come,  when  he  complained  piteously  that 
he  possessed  few  acquaintances  in  Paris,  and 
was  dreadfully  dull. 

"  You  should  go  about  to  museums  and  other 
dismal  places,  and  improve  your  mind,"  she  said ; 
but,  all  the  same,  she  promised  him  the  privilege 
of  her  society. 

He  found  Miss  St.  Simon  as  entertaining  and 
kind  as  on  the  previous  evening ;  and  that  young 
lady  astonished  herself  by  actually  finding  pleas 
ure  in  the  youth's  society.  She  was  well  in 
clined  to  undertake  a  sort  of  elder  sister  role, 
with  him,  and  determined  that  they  should  be 
bans  camarades.  She  had  no  intimates  among 
her  own  age  and  sex.  Spencer  really  seemed 
able  to  talk  and  to  understand,  and  the  late  soli 
tary  months  had  left  her  famished  for  mental 
food. 

He  staid  so  long  that  the  carriage  was  an 
nounced,  and  the  Tortoise  entered,  dressed  to  go 
out,  looking  like  a  pillow  done  up  in  cloaks  and 
shawls. 

"You  may  go  with  us  if  you  like,"  Fanny 
said  ;  and  he  did  like. 

So  he  drove  with  her  and  the  Tortoise,  in  a 


glorified  chariot,  along  a  triumphal  way,  bathed 
in  a  sunshine  which  did  not  warm  common  mor 
tals — poor,  foolish  boy ! 

Unfortunately  they  met  Mrs.  Pattaker  in  her 
grand  landau,  sitting  like  a  goddess  in  the 
family  attitude,  and  the  sight  of  the  poor  moth 
scorching  his  wings  in  the  flame  of  Fanny  St. 
Simon's  dangerous  eyes  reminded  Miss  Pattaker 
of  the  promise  she  gave  her  conscience  to  pre 
serve  the  young  man  from  such  peril. 

Mrs.  Pattaker  was  always  great,  but  never  so 
sublime  as  when  she  had  a  duty  to  perform,  es 
pecially  if  that  duty  consisted  in  exposing  a  sin 
ner.  The  moment  Fanny  St.  Simon  attempted 
to  meddle  with  a  youth  whose  future  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  considered  she  had  a  right  to  direct,  Fan 
ny  became  a  more  hardened  sinner  than  ever  in 
that  majestic  woman's  judgment,  and  must  be 
treated  accordingly.  Notwithstanding  this  de 
termination,  the  descendant  of  the  Signer  gave 
Miss  St.  Simon  the  benefit  of  her  most  beaming 
and  patronizing  smiles.  Spencer  was  so  busv 
gazing  at  the  perilous  damsel  that  he  did  not 
even  perceive  the  Pattaker  carriage  and  its  state 
ly  occupant,  until  Fanny  ordered  him  in  a  rapid 
whisper  to  turn  his  head. 

"Good  gracious!"  said  she,  as  the  vehicles 
rolled  on,  "I  was  frightened  half  to  death !  If 
you  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Pattaker  she  would  have 
had  us  both  exterminated  in  her  wrath.  Don't 
be  so  careless ;  you  must  always  be  prepared  for 
Mrs.  Pattaker.  She  is  ubiquitous ;  and  you 
must  never  fail  to  look  as  if  you  had  come  out 
for  the  express  bliss  of  meeting  her." 

Roland  laughed  in  his  hearty  boyish  fashion, 
and  Fanny  laughed  from  the  infection  of  his 
merriment,  marveling  that  any  masculine  creat 
ure  of  this  generation  could  laugh  like  that  at 
three-and-twenty. 

"She  ought  to  have  a  band  of  martial  music 
announce  her  approach,"  Spencer  said. 

"She  will  next  week,"  returned  Fanny; 
"President  Thiers  is  to  attend  to  the  matter 
as  soon  as  he  gets  through  with  this  installment 
of  the  milliards." 

"Lor,  Fanny !"  cried  the  Tortoise,  for  a  won 
der  catching  the  sense  of  their  conversation,  and 
of  course  accepting  it  literally.  "  Dear  me,  I 
hope  she'll  not  have  a  drum ;  if  she  has  one 
beaten  when  she  comes  to  see  us  it  will  give  me 
a  sick  headache,  as  sure  as  the  world." 

This  remark  naturally  caused  Fanny  and 
Spencer  to  laugh  more  absurdly  than  ever,  and 
altogether  the  drive  to  the  young  man  was  de 
cidedly  Elysian.  But  he  had  not  escaped  Mr?. 
Pattaker.  Fanny,  on  their  return,  ordered  the 
carriage  to  go  to  the  Avenue  d'Alma,  in  order 
that  she  might  leave  cards  on  some  newly  ar 
rived  acquaintance.  Mrs.  Pattaker's  landau 
was  at  the  door  as  they  reached  it,  and  that  lady 
exchanged  a  few  pleasant  words  with  Fanny,  and 
even  spoke  to  the  Tortoise.  The  Tortoise  had 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


that  speech  about  martial  music  fresh  in  her 
mind,  and  was  so  fearful  of  hearing  a  drum  beat 
that  she  shut  her  eyes,  put  her  fingers  in  her 
ears,  and  shook  like  a  jointed  doll. 

"Koland,"  said  Mrs.  Pattaker,  "don't  forget 
that  I  expect  you  at  dinner  to-night — seven 
o'clock ;"  and  off  dashed  her  showy  equipage. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  drum,"  moaned  the  Tor 
toise,  stared  a  good  deal,  and  finally,  as  neither 
of  her  companions  noticed  her,  indulged  in  a 
private  pinch  of  snuff,  leaving  a  stain  on  her  lav 
ender  gloves  which  would  have  irked  St.  Simon's 
soul  had  he  been  there  to  see. 

"  What  on  earth  did  she  mean  ?"  cried  Roland, 
aghast.  "Expect  me — dinner' — why,  it's  the 
first  I've  heard  of  it!" 

"It  won't  be  the  last,  if  you  presume  to  be 
unpunctual,"  returned  Fanny,  amused  at  his  dis 
mayed  face.  "I  know  what  it  means — you  are 
to  be  lectured  finely." 

She  leaned  a  little  forward  in  her  seat,  looked 
up  at  him  with  those  bewildering  eyes,  and  add 
ed,  almost  in  a  whisper, 

"Ah,  don't  let  her  make  you  dislike  me!  I 
have  been  thinking  ever  since  we  came  out  what 
good  friends  we  should  prove :  don't  let  her  spoil 
my  pleasant  dream ! " 

Spencer  fairly  shivered  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy. 

"As  if  any  body  could  do  that!"  he  stammer 
ed,  not  so  much  from  shyness  as  from  his  haste 
to  speak.  •  "But  why  should  she  wish  to — what 
does  she  want  to  say  ?" 

"  Oh !  that  I'm  an  awful  flirt,  and  a  danger 
ous  creature  ;  but  I  don't  mean  to  flirt  with  you ; 
we  are  to  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world — like 
two  boys — oh,  I  wish  I  were! — only  I  shall  be 
elder  sister,  and  you  are  to  tell  me  all  your  se 
crets,  remember  that!" 

The  construction  of  this  sentence  might  have 
shocked  Lindley  Murray ;  but  the  matter  was  so 
charming  to  Eoland  that  his  young  ears  actually 
buzzed. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  like  me,"  he  said,  enthu 
siastically.  "I  was  afraid,  last  night,  you  must 
think  me  awfully  stupid." 

"I  do  believe  you  are  trying  for  a  compli 
ment  ! "  laughed  Fanny. 

"Now,  you  can't  believe  me  such  an  idiot!" 
he  said,  eagerly,  and  one  of  the  quick  flushes  of 
color  which  often  filled  him  with  rage  came  into 
his  cheeks.  He  turned  his  head  away,  afraid 
that  Fanny  would  secretly  laugh,  but  in  truth  she 
was  thinking  how  handsome  the  blush  made  him, 
and  wondering  again  how  any  creature  of  this 
century  could  have  so  much  freshness  left. 

"Let  me  see,"  she  went  on,  good-naturedly 
arranging  the  mantle  of  the  Tortoise  (who  had 
sunk  into  a  drowse)  in  order  to  give  him  time  to 
subdue  his  roses.  "You  will  get  away  from  the 
Pattaker  by  ten ;  you  may  come  and  see  us  aft 
er,  if  you  like — we're  awfully  late,  disreputable 
wretches — and  tell  me  what  she  says." 


"There's  a  little  consolation,"  he  said,  gayly. 
"But,  oh!  she'll  go  over  the  Signer's  history, 
and  I  have  heard  it  so  often. " 

"View  it  in  the  light  of  a  penance — I  always 
do.  If  I  find  St.  Peter  inclined  to  be  hard  on 
me — up  yonder,  you  know — I  shall  remind  him 
that  I  knew  Mrs.  Pattaker,  and  I  am  sure  he  will 
be  merciful." 

"Peck!  Peck!"  wheezed  the  Tortoise,  softly, 
not  as  a  reproof  to  Fanny's  irreverence — only  an 
unconscious  note  of  peace  uttered  in  her  slum 
ber. 

"Poor  old  dear!  she's  tired,"  Fanny  said; 
"  we  must  let  her  go  home — it  is  getting  late." 

Spencer  thought  her  careless  good-nature  the 
most  beautiful  specimen  of  love  and  attention  he 
had  ever  witnessed,  and  rather  marveled  not  to 
see  a  halo  encircle  her  brown  tresses ;  indeed,  he 
felt  sure  it  was  there,  and  that  only  the  dullness 
of  his  vision  prevented  his  perceiving  it. 

They  drove  back  to  the  house,  and  Spencer 
had  to  leave  her ;  but  he  took  her  image  with  him 
to  his  lodgings,  and  it  brightened  the  dull  place 
like  a  flood  of  June  sunlight.  Fanny  found  that 
St.  Simon  had  brought  Monsieur  Besson  home  to 
dinner,  and  during  the  whole  meal  the  two  talked 
of  the  Silver  Company,  answered  her  questions 
freely,  and  gave  in  frequently  to  her  advice. 
When  she  left  them  over  their  wine,  she  was 
sufficiently  dazzled  by  the  brilliant  plans  to  dream 
that  the  time  was  not  far  distant  when  she  could 
summon  Talbot  Castlemaine  to  her  side,  and 
claim  the  happiness  and  rest  life  had  hitherto  so 
sternly  refused. 

While  the  Tortoise  slumbered  in  her*  easy- 
chair,  Fanny  sat  at  the  harp  and  played  fitful 
snatches  of  favorite  melodies.  At  intervals  she 
joined  her  voice  to  the  soft  strains ;  it  rang  into 
the  room  where  the  two  men  lingered,  causing 
Besson  to  start  suddenly,  to  St.  Simon's  private 
delectation,  for  he  understood  the  poor  man's  se 
cret  as  well  as  if  it  had  been  put  in  words,  and 
comprehended  what  strange  vague  echoes,  half 
of  happiness,  half  of  pain,  it  wakened  in  the  odd 
old  creature's  soul.  But  Fanny  scarcely  knew 
what  she  sung,  so  absorbing  was  her  dream. 
The  glorious  chance  which  had  unexpectedly  pre 
sented  itself  to  her  on  the  previous  night  seemed 
to  have  sent  her  bodily  into"  a  new  world. 

After  a  while  several  people  came  in  search  of 
St.  Simon,  and  were  shown  into  the  salle  a  man 
ger.  Presently  came  other  visitors — these  for 
the  drawing-room  ;  newly  returned  Paris  dan 
dies,  who  had  heard  of  Fanny's  arrival,  and  were 
eager  to  renew  their  acquaintance  with  the  fas 
cinating  American. 

In  the  mean  time  Roland  Spencer  had  eaten  his 
penitential  dinner  (I  mean  the  adjective  to  apply 
to  his  feelings,  not  the  meats,  for  the  Pattaker 
liked  to  dine  well),  had  listened  to  the  Signer's 
history,  been  treated  to  the  family  attitude,  and 
gone  through  the  whole  gamut  of  suffering  which 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


the  illustrious  lady  inflicted  upon  any  person  she 
desired  especially  to  honor. 

Miss  Langois  was  present — Miss  Langois  usu 
ally  dined  at  somebody's  expense — and  a  couple 
of  jubsy  men  whom  Mrs.  Pattaker  kept  about 
that  she  might  always  preserve  the  semblance 
of  a  court.  Miss  Langois  had  been  taught  her 
lesson  in  advance,  and  she  recited  it  admirably. 
She  was  in  gala  costume  to-night,  because  Mrs. 
Pattaker  exacted  such  at  all  times.  It  was  a 
remarkable  dress,  or  rather  it  was  two  dresses — 
cast-oif  garments  of  her  rich  sister's ;  but  Miss 
Langois  believed  it  an  attire  built  on  the  last 
rules  of  fashion,  and  was  happy.  Spencer  mar 
veled  how  one  woman  could  possess  so  many 
bones  in  her  neck,  and  confused  his  wits  by 
staring  at  them ;  the  more  he  tried  not  to,  the 
more  he  stared.  Every  now  and  then  some  new 
bone  would  start  into  prominence,  as  Miss  Lan 
gois  talked  and  gesticulated,  till  Roland  grew 
quite  nervous,  and  was  irresistibly  impelled  to  lay 
wagers  with  himself  as  to  where  the  next  would 
appear,  and  invariably  lost. 

"Miss  Langois  was  present,  not  to  perplex  him 
with  a  display  of  her  anatomy,  but  to  help  ex 
pose  Fanny  St.  Simon  in  her  true  colors,  only  it 
was  to  be  very  carefully  done,  because  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  remembered  the  mining  shares  hidden  in 
her  writing-desk,  and  had  no  intention  of  incur 
ring  any  risk  of  a  misunderstanding  with  St.  Si 
mon.  Still  she  had  a  duty  to  perform  by  the 
son  of  her  old  friend,  and  even  the  prospect  of 
reaping  a  golden  harvest  through  St.  Simon's 
aid  could  not  subdue  her  long-cherished  dislike 
of  the  tiiece.  Fanny  had  so  often  run  counter 
to  her,  had  thwarted  her  in  divers  pet  projects, 
had  sorely  annoyed  her  on  several  occasions,  was 
mocking  and  insolent  even  in  her  affectation  of 
respect.  Not  that  Mrs.  Pattaker  put  the  matter 
in  this  light.  She  believed  herself  magnificently 
regardless  of  Fanny,  only  it  was  her  duty  to  warn 
her  friend's  son,  and  she  would  do  it.  She  did 
it,  too,  in  the  drawing-room  while  Miss  Langois 
sat  at  the  piano  and  played  for  the  benefit  of  the 
jubsy  men — dropping  her  stitches  terribly,  as  St. 
Simon  always  said. 

But  Miss  Langois  believed  in  her  own  talent, 
and  Mrs.  Pattaker  having  no  ears  (for  music), 
took  the  talent  on  trust,  and  always  ordered  her 
to  play  for  the  jubsy  men  when  she  had  need  to 
victimize  some  one  as  she  was  about  to  do  Ro- 
land. 

After  all,  she  did  nothing  save  praise  Fanny 
St.  Simon — Mrs.  Pattaker  was  artful  in  her  idiocy 
— still,  she  exposed  her  real  character.  Her  ti 
rade  produced  a  marked  effect  on  Roland,  though 
not  precisely  of  the  nature  she  had  intended.  He 
had  not  even  leisure  to  rush  into  a  blaze  of  in 
dignation  in  defense  of  the  enchantress ;  he  was 
too  much  absorbed  by  an  overwhelming  truth 
which  forced  itself  upon  his  soul  with  overwhelm 
ing  force. 


He  loved  this  glorious  girl.  He  had  only 
spent  a  few  hours  in  her  society,  but  he  loved 
her.  The  truth  started  up  so  patent  and  power 
ful  that  it  did  not  even  appear  new  or  strange. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  loved  her  for  a 
whole  life. 

Had  Mrs.  Pattaker  allowed  matters  to  rest, 
Roland,  in  his  youthful  ignorance,  his  singular 
reticence  with  himself,  might  have  gone  on  for 
weeks  without  actually  comprehending  the  change 
which  had  come  over  him.  Mrs.  Pattaker  had 
opened  his  eyes.  He  saw  clearly  the  new  path 
into  which  his  feet  had  strayed,  and  he  gloried 
in  walking  therein.  He  was  so  dizzy  and  dazed 
under  the  revelation  that  he  sat  almost  silent,  and 
Mrs.  Pattaker  interpreted  the  silence  favorably. 

"Remember,"  she  said,  "in  me  you  have  al 
ways  a  sincere  friend.  Talk  freely  to  me,  be 
guided  by  my  counsels,  and  all  will  go  well." 

He  did  not  really  know  what  she  said,  or  what 
he  answered.  He  only  asked  to  get  out  of  the 
house,  to  be  alone  with  his  new  joy.  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  allowed  him  to  depart ;  and  when  he  was 
gone,  she  said  to  Miss  Langois  and  the  jubsy  men, 

' '  I  have  seldom  seen  a  better  bred  or  more 
amenable  young  man.  He  will  go  far,  under 
judicious  advice." 

Under  her  advice,  of  course.  By  going  far, 
Mrs.  Pattaker  did  not  mean  to  predict  lengthy 
journeys  for  the  youth ;  she  often  (like  many 
Americans  and  English  familiar  with  the  French 
tongue)  considered  it  becoming  to  translate  liter 
ally  certain  idiomatic  phrases.  Just  now  "going 
far  "meant,  in  her  thoughts,  that  Roland  should 
marry  a  title,  perhaps  assume  one  on  his  own 
account,  do  something,  at  all  events,  to  prove  ha 
was  a  Republican  who  profited  by  a  residence  in 
foreign  lands.  .  • 

It  was  still  early  when  Spencer  found  himself 
at  liberty,  and  he  darted  up  the  Champs  Elysees 
— less  brilliantly  lighted  since  the  fall  of  the  em 
pire  than  one  could  desire — like  an  arrow  shot 
out  of  a  bow,  or  a  bird  out  of  a  cage,  or  like  any 
other  poetic  imagery  that  may  please  you. 

Then  he  ran  down  the  Rue  de  Berri,  and  across 
the  dark  Faubourg  St.  Honore',  and  reached  the 
Avenue  Friedland,  close  to  the  residence  of  the 
St.  Simons.  A  sudden  fit  of  shyness  came  over 
him.  He  had  to  rush  up  and  down  a  while  in  the 
cool  night  air  before  he  could  venture  in.  He 
was  away  off  by  the  Arch  of  Triumph  before *he 
knew  it,  staring  at  the  grand  monument,  on 
whose  summit  the  stars  seemed  fairly  to  rest, 
conducting  himself  generally  in  such  an  extraor 
dinary  fashion  that  if  the  twin  sergents  de  ville 
(who  ought  to  have  been  promenading  the  place 
instead  of  drinking  beer  in  the  cabaret  in  a 
neighboring  street)  had  seen  him,  they  would  un 
doubtedly  have  regarded  his  antics  with  suspi 
cious  eyes. 

At  last  he  got  enough  the  better  of  his  mental 
intoxication  to  recollect  that  he  was  losing  pre- 


44 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


cious  time.  He  had  the  whole  night  in  which 
to  dream ;  but  if  he  desired  another  glimpse  of 
Fanny  to  sanctify  the  hours,  he  must  return  to 
the  house  at  once. 

He  found  St.  Simon  and  his  friends  still  in  the 
dining-room,  for  the  servant  showed  him  into 
that  cloudy  apartment,  and  he  looked  so  blank 
that  St.  Simon  secretly  laughed,  but  he  was  very 
cordial  to  the  young  fellow. 

"If  you  will  not  smoke,  or  have  any  claret," 
he  said,  "we'll  go  into  the  salon,  and  find  the 
feminines." 

So  they  all  went  thither,  and  there  was  Fanny, 
making  herself  bewitching  to  the  dandies ;  but 
luckily  they  soon  disappeared,  and  then  Fanny 
treated  Spencer  to  another  cup  of  glorified  tea, 
such  she  had  given  him  on  the  previous  even 
ing,  and  let  him  follow  her  into  her  pet  nook, 
where  they  could  talk  at  their  ease,  while  St. 
Simon  kept  the  other  men  in  conversation. 

"Well,"  said  Fanny,  "have  you  come  to  tell 
me  that  I  am  a  mermaid  or  a  Gorgon  disguised  ? 
Now,  do  let's  have  the  whole  history.  Of  course 
the  Langois  was  there — she  paved  the  way.  You 
need  not  look  so  confused,  bless  you !  Don't  I 
know  my  Pattaker!" 

"The  woman  is  an  idiot !"  cried  Spencer, 
flushing,  not,  as  Fanny  supposed,  from  embar 
rassment,  but  with  indignation  as  he  remembered 
Mrs.  Pattaker's  hints  and  innuendoes.  He  had 
scarcely  regarded  them  as  she  spoke,  so  absorbed 
was  he  in  the  new  revelation  of  his  own  heart ; 
but  their  malice  became  evident  to  him  now,  and 
he  hated  the  Signer's  descendant. 

"Now,  don't  speak  disrespectfully  of  her," 
laughed  Fanny ;  "  haven't  I  told  you  it  is  against 
the  law  ?  It  is  not  to-night  I  have  to  learn  that 
the  stately  dame  detests  me." 

"Oh,  she  spoke  of  you  in  the  most  affectionate 
way.  She  said  you  were  fascinating — " 

"But  dangerous!" 

"And  she  admires  your  uncle  immensely," 
continued  Eoland,  wisely  disregarding  Fanny's 
parenthetical  exclamation. 

"Ah!  she  admires  St.  Simon  too,"  said  Fan 
ny,  and  laughed  again  to  remember  by  what 
means  that  esteem  had  been  secured;  but  she 
could  not  venture  to  tell  Spencer  the  history. 

"Dear  me!  if  there  were  no  male  Pattaker 
and  no  Tor — no  claim  on  St.  Simon — I  might 
have  the  Pattaker  she  for  an  aunt.  The  bare 
idea  turns  me  faint." 

"She  is  going  to  watch  over  me  like  a  moth 
er,"  pursued  Eoland,  with  a  grimace  of  disgust. 
"I  felt  tempted  to  run  away  from  Paris." 

"  Ah !  but  you  will  not  do  that  ?" 

If  he  had  been  on  the  eve  of  departure,  her 
glance  would  have  kept  him  faithful  to  his  post. 
Some  wild,  passionate  words  rose  to  his  lips,  but 
he  checked  them. 

"Of  course,  I  was  only  jesting,"  he  said,  in  a 
repressed  voica. 


"But  you  have  not  told  what  she  said  about 
poor  me." 

"I  don't  think  I  remember  any  thing,  only 
that  you  were  fascinating.  I  knew  she  could 
not  describe  you  better,  so  did  not  listen  any 
further." 

"You  are  a  very  promising  young  man,"  re 
torted  Fanny.  "You  do  the  compliment  and 
the  fib  as  neatly  as  possible ;  but  I  don't  like 
either  from  you.  Kecollect,  we  are  to  be  Ions 
camarades,  and  talk  honestly.  Of  course,  I  mean 
that  you  are  to  tell  me  the  truth.  I  am  a  wom 
an,  and  it  is  not  to  be  expected  on  my  part." 

He  thought  that  a  capital  joke,  but  she  was 
perfectly  serious. 

Little  by  little  she  got  out  of  him  every  thing 
Mrs.  Pattaker  had  said ;  that  is,  she  told  him  the 
remarks  as  accurately  as  if  she  had  listened  to 
the  conversation,  and  he  would  not  deny  their 
correctness. 

"My  poor  dear  old  Pattaker !"  sighed  Fanny, 
"she  is  nearing  her  dotage,  and  begins  to  repeat 
herself." 

She  looked  very  sweet  and  martyr-like,  but 
she  .was  wondering  if  in  this  affair  with  which 
St.  Simon  had  dazzled  Mrs.  Pattaker  there  would 
arise  no  opportunity  of  punishing  the  creature  as 
she  deserved.  Then  she  put  the  thought  aside 
for  the  present,  though  not  relinquishing  it.  Un 
fortunately  for  Fanny,  she  shared  St.  Simon's 
creed,  and  longed  to  avenge  herself  on  any  body 
who  attacked  her — a  creed  which  in  the  end 
brings  more  harm  to  the  holder  than  to  others. 

But  the  business  of  the  moment  was  to  make 
Spencer  forget  what  he  had  heard  to  her  dis 
paragement.  All  the  fascinations  she  had  be 
fore  displayed  were  nothing  compared  to  those 
she  employed  to-night ;  not  because  she  wanted 
him  in  love,  but  she  was  solitary  and  he  com 
panionable,  and  she  could  not  let  Mrs.  Pattaker 
rob  her  of  his  liking  and  friendship. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   POWER  OF   ATTORNEY. 

FANNY  ST.  SIMON  and  Spencer  drifted  quickly 
into  an  intimacy  likely  to  prove  very  fatal  to  the 
young  man's  peace ;  though  the  lady  still  told 
herself,  as  she  had  done  at  the  beginning,  that 
she  meant  him  no  harm — would  do  him  none,  for 
the  world. 

Roland's  freshness  and  enthusiasm  interested 
her  inexpressibly.  She  laughed  at  him  some 
times;  but  that  was  in  her  gloomy  moments, 
when  his  earnestness  and  faith  in  all  things  made 
her  feel  the  difference  between  them,  and  a  sharp 
pang  of  envy  wrung  her  heart.  She  was  very  fond 
of  the  high  -  souled,  impulsive  boy,  who  seemed 
years  younger  than  she ;  indeed,  she  felt  that  in 
many  ways  she  had  known  no  youth.  The  exi- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


gencies  of  life  had  so  early  torn  the  veil  from  her 
eves,  that  she  could  scarcely  recollect  a  season 
when  she  had  not  been  skeptical  in  regard  to  hu 
manity  and  the  world  in  general.  She  had  hard 
ly  ever  believed  in  any  body's  truthfulness  as  she 
did  in  Roland's,  and  it  gave  her  a  certain  respect 
for  his  character,  a  desire  to  stand  well  in  his 
esteem,  while  wondering  at  the  pains  she  took. 
She  meant  to  be  truthful,  also,  where  he  was  con 
cerned,  and  believed  that  she  was,  because  she 
adopted  the  habit  of  speaking  freely  to  him  of 
her  faults  ;  but  she  acknowledged  them  in  a  fash 
ion  which  only  rendered  her  more  charming. 

If  Mrs.  Pattaker  could  have  known  how  con 
stantly  during  the  next  fortnight  Spencer  sought 
the  society  against  which  she  had  warned  him  in 
grandiloquent  phrases,  she  would  have  been  ter 
ribly  outraged,  and  felt  that  she  had  a  new  and 
stronger  cause  of  grievance  against  this  young 
woman,  who  had  always  refused  to  prostrate  her 
self  with  fitting  humility  before  the  shrine  of  the 
Signer's  descendant. 

Eoland  was  granted  the  freedom  of  the  house 
in  the  most  delightful  manner ;  but  as  he  liked 
best  to  go  at  the  hours  when  he  was  sure  of  find 
ing  Fanny  alone,  the  fact  of  his  disregard  of  Mrs. 
Pattaker's  wishes  did  not  afford  that  lady  an 
other  proof  of  the  ingratitude  of  human  nature 
— a  theme  upon  which  she  was  fond  of  holding 
forth. 

Fanny  had  declared  to  St.  Simon  that  she 
could  not  be  bored  by  having  people  intrude  at 
untimely  seasons,  it  was  a  martyrdom  to  which 
she  was  not  prepared  to  submit ;  besides,  it  was 
difficult  to  keep  the  Tortoise  in  fitting  order  to 
receive  unexpected  guests.  So  the  St.  Simons 
had  their  day  of  reception  and  their  evening 
when  they  were  at  home — decorous,  proper  fes 
tivities,  which  bored  Fanny  dreadfully,  though 
St.  Simon  endured  them  in  a  philosophical  spir 
it,  promising  himself  a  future  reward.  The  pair 
did  occasionally  relieve  the  tedium^  of  their  lives 
by  hunting  up  some  agreeable  French  acquaint 
ances,  to  whom  they  gave  dinners  and  suppers ; 
but  they  were  careful  not  to  mention  these  per 
sons  to  the  American  set,  or  to  such  Parisians  as 
hung  about  American  circles.  Paris  was  hor 
ribly  dull  to  both,  naturally  enough,  as  during 
the  last  years  of  the  empire  they  had  been  on 
familiar  terms  with  one  of  the  gayest  coteries 
which  dazzled  the  world  at  the  time,  and  covered 
with  such  opprobrium  since  the  downfall  of  the 
imperial  party  left  its  adherents  to  be  judged  by 
the  cold,  cruel  light  which  follows  ruin  and  de 
feat. 

Indeed,  those  hours  with  Roland  Spencer  were 
altogether  the  pleasantest  Fanny  passed  at  this 
period,  astonished  the  while  at  the  enjoyment  she 
took  therein.  lie  was  still  so  young  that  he 
loved  poetry  and  reveled  in  romances.  Fanny 
listened  to  more  verses  than  she  had  heard  or 
read  in  ages,  and  actually  persuaded  him  to  read 


her  his  own,  which  were  sweet  and  musical,  if  not 
remarkable  in  any  other  manner.  Besides,  these 
verses  were  usually  the  expression  of  the  charm 
which  knowing  her  had  cast  over  his  existence ; 
and  though  Fanny  would  have  derided  the  idea 
of  caring  about  such  nonsense,  she  was  still  wom 
anly  enough  to  be  touched  and  gratified. 

She  thought  she  had  been  very  wise  where  this 
boy  was  concerned — very  considerate  too.  From 
the  first  she  had  decided  the  terms  upon  which 
their  intimacy  was  to  rest.  He  was  to  tell  her 
his  secrets  —  even  his  naughty  ones  (Roland 
blushed  so  painfully  at  this  suggestion,  however, 
that  she  was  hugely  diverted)  ;  and  in  return  he 
was  to  prove  patient  with  her  maussaderies,  brus- 
queries,  and  all  the  other  varying  moods  of  selfish 
caprice  for  which  she  found  a  variety  of  pretty 
French  names.  She  aided  him,  too,  in  the  mys 
teries  of  that  language,  which  he  spoke  tolerably. 
Here,  perhaps,  she  did  render  him  a  real  service, 
as  she  possessed  an  absolute  genius  for  this  line 
of  accomplishment,  speaking  three  or  four  tongues 
positively  without  foreign  accent.  Then,  as  I 
have  said,  she  was  trying  to  be  honest  and 
truthful  with  him,  and  that  rendered  her  more 
dangerous  than  all  her  other  Circean  attributes 
put  together. 

"You  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  me, "she 
said  one  day.  "  I  am  not  worth  it,  do  believe 
me.  I  have  had  a  hard  life — been  wretchedly 
brought  up.  I'm  old  and  worn  and  blasee ! 
Why,  I  might  be  my  own  grandmother,  I  am 
so  familiar  with  the  wickedness  of  this  dismal 
world." 

Roland  always  answered  such  speeches  with 
an  incredulous  smile,  and  elaborately  proved  to 
her  how  mistaken  she  was ;  he  did  so  now. 

"  Very  well ;  put  me  on  a  pedestal  if  you  will," 
she  said;  "but  don't  blame  me  when  you  find 
out  some  day  what  a  hideous  clay  image  I  am — 
promise  me  that." 

"  I  do  promise ;  I  can  not  imagine  any  circum 
stance  arising  which  would  make  me  blame  you." 

Fanny  looked  in  his  earnest,  truthful  face,  and 
for  an  instant  she  would  have  given  her  right 
hand  to  be  what  he  believed  her — young  enough 
and  good  enough  to  prize  his  love  and  prove 
worthy  of  it. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  live  to  remind  you  of  those 
words,"  she  said,  sadly. 

"Not  very  probable,"  he  returned,  laughing. 

"It  may  easily  be,  but  I  hope  not.  I'd  like 
to  keep  one  real  friend;  you  can't  think  how 
pleasant  it  is  to  me  to  have  found  such. "  , 

He  contented  himself  with  this  proffered 
friendship  for  the  time.  He  lived  on  in  a  beau 
tiful  dream — not  questioning  the  future,  scarce 
ly  rendering  a  mental  account  of  his  own  sensa 
tions  or  feelings. 

Fanny  was  in  a  mood  this  morning  to  un 
burden  her  soul — "airing  her  vocabulary,"  she 
would  have  contemptuously  styled  it.  She  felt 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


unusually  moody  and  disturbed,  and  it  was  like 
thinking  aloud.  She  told  him  a  great  deal 
about  her  desolate,  neglected,  childish  days ;  her 
miserable,  ill  -  directed  girlhood.  She  paraded 
her  faults ;  she  reproached  herself;  but  over  the 
whole  she  threw  a  poetical  glamour  which  made 
it  r,ll  beautiful  to  him,  and  he  listened  with  his 
soul  in  his  eyes.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  at 
last  the  Tortoise  appeared,  and  interrupted  the 
interview,  for  if  they  had  sat  there  much  longer 
Roland  must  inevitably  have  put  his  heart  into 
words.  The  poor  Tortoise  was  dreadfully  fa 
tigued  and  bewildered.  Several  days  previous 
St.  Simon  had  issued  an  order  that  she  must 
walk  every  morning.  He  told  Fanny  that  the 
poor  creature  would  inevitably  crumble  to  bits 
if  she  did  not  have  exercise.  So  to-day  she  had 
been  sent  out  under  Antoinette's  guardianship, 
and  Antoinette,  seeing  fit  to  indulge  in  a  rather 
long  promenade,  had  brought  the  Tortoise  back 
in  a  pitiable  state. 

"I've  lost  my  handkerchief,  and  my  boot  is 
unbuttoned, "  she  moaned,  dropping  into  the  first 
comfortable  seat  that  presented  itself.  "I  tbld 
Antoinette,  but  she  wouldn't  believe  me,  and 
pretended  not  to  understand.  Oh  dear,  I'm  so 
faint !  I  wish  I  could  have  a  glass  of  sherry  and 
a  biscuit,  Fanny.  I  ate  a  few  eclairs,  but  An 
toinette  hurried  me  so  they  did  me  no  good. 
And  I  can't  find  my  box.  Oh,  if  I've  lost  my 
box,  and  if  St.  Simon  should  see  it !  He's  al 
ways  prowling  about,  and  he's  so  good-natured 
lately  that  he  must  mean  mischief.  Oh,  Fanny, 
haven't  you  seen  my  box  ?" 

Fanny  hurried  to  her,  partly  animated  by  the 
contemptuous  pity  she  always  felt  for  the  chaotic 
soul's  troubles,  partly  to  stop  any  indiscreet  dis 
closures  before  Spencer. 

"Let  me  take  off  your  bonnet,  T.,"  she  said. 
"  Here  is  Mr.  Spencer  waiting  to  shake  hands 
with  you." 

"Has  he  got  my  box?"  she  demanded,  anx 
iously.  "  Oh,  if  I  could  only  sneeze,  I'm  sure  it 
would  do  me  a  world  of  good." 

Spencer  had  been  initiated  into  the  mysteries 
of  the  tabatiere,  and  had  gained  the  Tortoise's 
heart  by  carrying  one  in  his  pocket,  and  treat 
ing  her  to  secret  pinches  of  snuff.  He  slipped 
the  box  into  her  hand  now,  and  decorously  turn 
ed  his  back  while  she  indulged  in  a  copious  re 
freshment.  It  was  necessary  for  her  peace  of 
mind  that  the  affair  should  be  conducted  in  this, 
to  her,  surprisingly  artful  manner. 

"I'm  ever  so  much  better,"  she  sighed. 
"Oh,  Fanny,  I  don't  feel  right;  that  new  maid 
doesn't  put  me  together  at  all,  and  I've  lost 
a  string.  I  told  Antoinette,  but  she  never  pays 
any  attention :  I  wish  you'd  make  her,  Fanny. " 

"Of  course  I  will,  T.,"  said  Fanny.  "  Now, 
Mr.  Spencer  is  going  to  ring  for  some  wine  and 
biscuits,  and  you  shall  go  to  your  room  and  en 
joy  them  comfortably." 


"I  don't  like  to  walk, "expostulated  the  Tor 
toise,  feebly;  "it  frightens  me:  it  makes  me 
afraid  we're  poor  again ;  and  one  foot  seems 
larger  than  the  other.  I  think  it  was  a  great 
deal  more  comfortable  before  St.  Simon  came 
back." 

"  I  will  walk  with  you  myself,  to-morrow, 
T.,"  said  Fanny,  "and  Mr.  Spencer  shall  go  too, 
and  give  you  his  arm — I'm  sure  he  will. " 

"Yes,  indeed;  I  shall  be  delighted,"  added 
Roland,  who  would  have  gladly  carried  the 
Tortoise  on  his  back  for  leagues  to  please  the 
siren. 

"I  think  he's  very  good,"  croaked  the  Tor 
toise,  and  added,  in  a  wheezy  whisper,  "  Slip  the 
box  into  his  pocket,  Fanny." 

Then  Spencer  rang  the  bell.  Fanny  ordered 
sherry  and  biscuits  into  the  Tortoise's  room  ; 
but  it  was  a  work  of  time  to  conduct  the  poor 
soul  within  reach  of  the  refreshment  her  body 
craved.  Strings  and  pins  gave  way  in  all  di 
rections  when  she  tried  to  move,  and  there  were 
such  direful  rustlings  and  creakings  that  Fanny 
began  to  dread  her  turning  into  a  kind  of  cari 
cature  of  the  "Venus  de  Milo  before  she  could  get 
her  away.  She  was  seized,  too,  with  a  desire  to 
have  Spencer  share  the  wine  and  biscuits,  and  it 
took  many  words  to  convince  her  that  he  had  no 
wish  for  such  creature  comforts. 

"There's  plenty  of  both,  "she  said,  "plenty; 
and  St.  Simon  says  I  can  have  more  when  they're 
gone." 

Fanny  had  made  no  secret  to  Spencer  of  the 
changes  to  which  their  Bohemian  life  exposed 
them,  and  had  told  him  the  story  of  their  so 
journ  in  the  Quartier  Montmartre ;  so  he  perfect 
ly  understood  the  Tortoise's  apparent  insanities. 
Having  deposited  that  unfortunate  animal  safely 
in  her  chamber,  and  seen  her  soothed  by  the  sight 
of  the  eatables,  Fanny  shut  her  softly  in,  and  re 
turned  to  Spencer. 

"How  good  you  are!"  he  said,  suddenly. 
"How  can  you  slander  yourself  by  talking  of 
your  impatience  and  selfishness  ?" 

^  It  is  no  merit ;  somehow  poor  T.  does  not 
irritate  me.  Isn't  it  odd  to  think  she  was  once 
a  pretty  girl — rather  a  bright  one,  too,  I  have 
heard.  I've  a  picture  of  her  I'll  show  you  some 
day." 

So  they  talked  on  till  Fanny  worked  herself 
into  one  of  her  nervous  states,  and  was  absurdly 
gay.  She  sent  him  off  at  last,  pursuing  him  with 
jests  and  witticisms  to  the  very  door.  The 
moment  he  had  gone  a  change  came  over  her. 
She  was  thinking  of  her  life.  Past  and  future 
opened  so  desolate  before  her.  Even  the  hope 
which  had  of  late  buoyed  her  up  ceased  to  aid. 
She  tortured  herself  by  fancying  Castlemaine  for 
ever  out  of  reach  of  her  existence ;  fretted  her 
soul  by  recalling  the  bliss  of  the  brief  season 
when  she,  too,  had  dreamed  her  dream;  and 
finally,  part  from  real  feeling,  part  because  she 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


47 


was  hysterical,  burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of 
tears,  and  rushed  up  and  down  the  room  like  a 
person  trying  to  qualify  herself  for  Bedlam. 

St.  Simon  had  been  busy  all  the  morning  in 
his  cabinet  de  travail — a  luxurious  room  which 
he  had  chosen  for  his  own  private  occupation, 
lie  had  wanted  something  out  of  the  Tortoise's 
chamber,  gone  thither  by  a  back  passage,  and, 
finding  her  comfortably  asleep  after  the  wine  and 
biscuits,  returned  through  the  boudoir  and  inner 
salon  to  the  room  where  Fanny  was  indulging  in 
her  little  private  mad-house  business.  He  stood 
in  the  shadow  of  the  silk  curtains  which  hung 
over  the  door-way,  and  watched  her — not  sym 
pathetically,  but  with  a  certain  psychological  in 
terest.  He  had  often  seen  her  in  these  wild,  re 
bellious  moods  while  still  a  young  girl,  but  he 
fancied  that  she  had  cured  herself  of  them. 

"It  is  really  very  silly,"  was  his  thought; 
"she  can't  afford  these  freaks  at  her  age;  she 
will  make  lines  in  her  face  that  won't  come  out." 
He  felt  moved  to  advance  and  give  her  this  in 
formation,  but  still  paused  a  moment  to  admire 
the  outburst,  for  it  struck  the  dramatic  side  of 
his  taste.  She  flung  herself  into  a  chair,  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands,  and  the  attitude  was  real 
ly  a  picture.  He  wondered  that  in  some  of  their 
"hard -up"  seasons  he  had  never  thought  of 
sending  her  on  the  stage. 

Before  he  had  finished  his  reflection,  before 
Fanny  could  stir,  the  doors  into  the  anteroom 
were  thrown  open  ;  a  gentleman  appeared  on 
the  threshold,  and  a  stupid  new  servant,  just 
without,  was  saying,  in  broken  English, 

"  If  monsieur  will  wait  here,  I  shall  take  his 
name/' 

The  new  domestic  had  been  warned  against 
admitting  any  visitor  into  St.  Simon's  sanctum, 
so,  thinking  the  salon  empty,  had  ushered  this 
guest  in  hither. 

"Say  that  Mr.  Alleyne  wishes  to  see  him — 
wait ;  here  is  a  card." 

The  servant  Avas  gone,  Alleyne  in  the  room, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  before  Fanny  could 
do  more  than  rise  from  her  chair.  Her  tears 
were  still  streaming;  she  looked  exceedingly 
handsome.  Some  curls  of  her  dark  hair  had 
fallen  loose;  her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  ex 
citement  ;  her  white  cashmere  robe,  relieved  by 
vivid  blue  trimmings  and  falls  of  delicate  lace, 
added  to  the  effect. 

St.  Simon's  first  feeling  at  the  catastrophe  had 
been  rage  and  dismay,  his  second  was  triumph. 

"By  Jove! "he  thought,  "if  she'd  tried  a 
month,  she  could  not  have  managed  any  thing  so 
effective,  and  certain  to  hit  him  home." 

He  crept  softly  back  through  the  boudoir,  and 
gained  the  passage  which  led  to  his  private 
room. 

Fanny  saw  the  tall,  rather  stern-looking  man 
regarding  her — saw  a  sudden  expression  of  sym 
pathy  soften  his  features.  Confused  and  annoy 


ed  as  she  felt,  she  was  quite  capable  of  turning 
the  situation  to  the  best  account.  She  was 
standing  close  by  a  mirror ;  a  half  glance  show 
ed  her  that  the  tears  only  beautified  her  face. 
Before  Alleyne  could  decide  what  to  do  she 
had  moved  toward  him,  and  was  saying,  with  a 
tremulous  smile, 

"  Our  new  man  has  been  guilty  of  an  absurdi 
ty;  but  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Alleyne. 
My  uncle  has  expected  you  for  some  days. 
Please  don't  look  disturbed  because  you  caught 
me  crying  ;  there's  nothing  the  matter.  Let  me 
introduce  you  to  Fanny  St.  Simon.  I  am  a  lit 
tle  ashamed  of  her,  but  never  mind  ;  I'll  dry  her 
eyes  in  a  second,  if  you  will  only  sit  down." 

He  smiled  in  a  slow,  grave  fashion,  and,  as 
she  seated  herself  on  a  sofa,  took  a  chair  near. 

"Your  uncle  had  promised  me  the  pleasure 
of  making  your  acquaintance,"  he  said;  "but  I 
do  beg  your  pardon  for  having  blundered  upon 
you  like  this." 

"You  need  not,"  she  answered ;  " I  am  rath 
er  proud  of  being  able  to  cry." 

It  seemed  for  an  instant  doubtful  whether 
smiles  or  tears  would  get  the  mastery ;  and,  though 
she  went  on  talking  easily,  her  voice  still  trem 
bled,  as  if  she  had  difficulty  to  repress  a  sob. 
Had  she  been  gay  without  effort,  Alleyne  would 
have  considered  her  a  monster ;  but  she  was  ap 
parently  fighting  so  gallant  a  battle  against  emo 
tion  that  he  regarded  her  with  real  admiration 
and  respect ;  and  though  a  stoic,  nowadays,  in  his 
own  opinion,  where  woman's  beauty  was  con 
cerned,  her  appearance  impressed  him  greatly. 

They  conversed  for  a  few  moments ;  then  the 
blundering  servant  returned  to  conduct  the  vis 
itor  to  St.  Simon's  sanctum  :  that  crafty  fox  had 
no  mind  to  spoil  Fanny's  unintentional  effect  by 
intruding  upon  the  pair. 

Alleyne  arose  rather  reluctantly;  the  young 
woman  saw  this,  and  triumphed  in  her  success. 
She  bade  him  good-morning,  but,  as  he  turned  to 
follow  the  domestic,  hastened  forward  a  few  steps, 
and  sr.id,  hesitatingly, 

"Mr.  Alleyne,  please — ' 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  smiling  again. 

She  looked  such  a  pretty  picture  of  mingled 
confusion  and  amusement  at  her  own  folly  that 
no  masculine  could  have  resisted  her. 

"Only — only  that  you  will  not  tell  my  uncle 
what  a  goose  I  have  been.  I'll  be  so  very  ami 
able  and  sensible  hereafter  when  you  come,  if 
you  will  keep  my  little  secret." 

"You  may  be  sure  I  shall,"  he  answered, 
gravely. 

"He's  a  prig,"  thought  Fanny;  "no,  he's  a 
stick !  He  can't  even  say  that  he  is  happy  to 
begin  our  acquaintance  with  a  secret."  Then, 
aloud,  "Thank  you  very  much.  I  suppose  you 
are  going  away,  thinking — thinking — " 

"Several  things,"  he  added,  when  she  hesi 
tated. 


48 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"That  I  am  absurd,  and  given  to  hysterics," 
cried  she,  indignantly.  "  Now,  that  is  more  un 
pardonable  than  to  catch  me  crying;"  and  she 
laughed  again. 

"I  shall  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking,  that 
you  may  not  accuse  me  of  such  idiocy,"  he  said, 
moving  close  to  her;  "only  you  must  forgive 
the  impertinence." 

She  gave  him  one  shy  glance,  and  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"I  was  wishing  that  I  knew  you  well  enough 
to  ask  if  you  were  really  grieved  over  any  thing 
— if  I  could  serve  you  in  any  way." 

She  gave  him  the  benefit  of  another  rapid 
glance,  and  held  out  her  hand  impulsively. 

"Thanks,  a  thousand  times!"  said  she.  "I 
don't  hate  you  for  having  seen  me  cry,  and  I 
fancy  I  shall  like  you.  St.  Simon  has  sounded 
your  praises  so  loudly  that  I  meant  not  to." 

"I  have  only  a  short  acquaintance  with  your 
uncle,"  he  said,  bowing  over  the  hand  which 
was  quickly  withdrawn,  as  if  from  a  sudden  re 
membrance  that  her  conduct  might  appear  miss- 
ish  and  gushing ;  ' '  but  he  has  been  very  cordial, 
and  obliged  me  in  a  variety  of  ways ;  so  I  hope 
you  will  not  regard  me  as  a  stranger." 

"  Certainly  not,  after  this  flinging  of  myself 
on  your  sympathy,"  she  replied,  with  graceful 
mockery. 

"And  as  a  proof,  you  will  remember  what  I 
have  said — if— if  I  could  possibly  serve  you, "  he 
continued,  speaking  rather  stiffly,  from  a  genuine 
embarrassment. 

"Thanks  again.  But,  indeed,  I  told  you  the 
truth.  I  don't  know  what  ailed  me — life  is  too 
monotonous  nowadays  to  hold  even  a  grief.  Oh, 
good  gracious !  please  go  off  to  my  uncle.  I  only 
make  matters  worse  by  trying  to  find  excuses." 

"Not  exactly  —  though  there  is  no  excuse 
needed, "returned  Alleyne. 

Then  he  bowed,  and  went  away.  When  the 
door  closed,  Fanny  marched  across  the  room  and 
surveyed  her  image  in  the  mirror. 

"Human  nature  is  an  idiot,"  she  calmly  ob 
served,  "and,  wise  as  you  think  yourself,  Mr. 
Gregory  Alleyne,  you're  as  silly  as  your  neigh 
bors.  Appealing  to  your  sympathy  is  the  little 
dodge  that  answers  in  your  case,  sir!  Well, 
there's  a  good  beginning  made  without  any  ef 
fort,  and,  if  necessary,  it  shall  be  a  hold  to  lead 
you  farther  than  you  fancy." 

If  necessary !  That  took  her  back  to  the  hope 
kindled  in  her  mind  by  St.  Simon's  plans  and 
promises.  A  few  months  more  might  complete 
ly  change  her  whole  life — enable  her  to  be  done 
with  plots  and  intrigues.  Fanny  thought  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  wake  up  some  morning, 
and  find  there  was  nothing  to  hinder  her  acting 
out  her  real  thoughts  and  feelings ;  nothing  to 
be  done  except  make  herself  charming  to  Talbot. 
Ah,  changeable  and  capricious  as  he  was,  surely 
her  great  love  would  give  her  power  to  keep  him 


constant  and  content.  And  away  she  went  into 
the  possible  future;  as  foolish  as  humanity  in 
general,  after  all  her  experience. 

She  was  roused  by  the  announcement  of  the 
carriage,  and  hurried  off  to  warn  the  Tortoise, 
and  to  dress.  There  were  visits  to  pay,  and 
each  separate  household  into  which  she  was 
forced  to  enter  Fanny  devoted  mentally  to  the 
infernal  gods  in  very  correct  and  forcible  French. 
But  she  was  especially  charming,  and  every  body 
who  saw  her  said  that  she  was  more  witty  than 
ever,  and  did  not  look  a  day  older  than  she  had 
done  five  years  previous. 

It  was  one  of  Mrs.  Pattaker's  reception  morn 
ings,  and  Fanny  presented  herself  there,  and  aft 
er  her  departure  some  silly  man  ventured  that 
remark.  The  Signer's  descendant  said,  sweetly 
and  commiseratingly, 

"Poor  dear  Fanny!  Yes,  she  wears  wonder 
fully  well — considering." 

But  she  was  furious  with  the  man  all  the 
same,  and  vowed  that  he  should  not  dine  at  her 
house  for  a  month.  Fanny  had  been  deliciously 
impertinent  to  Mrs.  Pattaker,  and  caused  several 
people,  acute  enough  to  enjoy  the  honeyed  stings, 
to  smile,  and  the  great  lady  felt  that  to  hear  such 
praise  of  the  odious  creature  was  more  than  Job 
could  have  borne  patiently. 

As  the  aunt  and  niece  reached  their  house 
they  encountered  St.  Simon  just  entering.  He 
gave  the  Tortoise  his  arm  with  great  ceremony, 
but  she  vexed  him  by  clattering  her  boot-heels 
on  the  staircase,  and  he  squeezed  her  wrist  so 
tightly  that  she  squeaked  dolefully. 

"He  hurts  me,"  she  sighed  ;  "I'd  rather  walk 
by  myself  than  be  pinched." 

"Oh,  T.,  T. !"  laughed  St.  Simon.  "Am  I 
so  ungallant  a  husband  that  you  do  not  even  un 
derstand  an  affectionate  pressure  ?" 

"Fanny,"  whispered  the  Tortoise,  who  was 
on  the  other  side  of  her — and  now  her  voice 
was  full  of  horror  ;  "  Fanny,  I'm  coming  to  bits 
— the  new  woman  never  does  fasten  my  strings. 
Oh,  I'm  coming  to  bits,  and  then  he  will  pinch 
me  in  good  earnest !" 

"You  will  have  to  carry  a  work-basket  to 
put  your  remains  in,"  said  St.  Simon,  pleasantly 
enough,  but  Fanny  knew  by  his  face  something 
had  vexed  him,  and  as  soon  as  possible  hurried 
the  Tortoise  off  to  her  room. 

"So  Mr.  Alleyne  has  come  at  last,"  she  said. 

"He  told  me  he  saw  you,"  returned  St.  Si 
mon;  and  added  indiscreetly  (for  he  did  not 
mean  to  let  her  know  that  he  had  been  an  ob 
server  of  her  interrupted  dramatics).  "  You  must 
have  struck  some  grand  coup;  he  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  your  little  interview. " 

"So  you  were  watching  me  this  morning,  St. 
Simon  ?"  demanded  she,  jumping  to  a  conclusion 
as  quick  as  lightning. 

"I  was  coming  from  T.'s  room  to  speak  to 
you,"  returned  he,  unmoved.  "I  was  nearly 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


paralyzed  by  your  emotion ;  but  before  I  could 
find  voice  to  entreat  you  to  weep  on  my  bosom 
— enter  Gregory  Alleyne.  It  was  very  neat.  I 
felt  ready  to  beat  you  at  first,  but  it  succeeded 
finely. " 

She  flushed  angrily,  but  occupied  herself  tak 
ing  off  her  miniature  bonnet  and  arranging  her 
hair.  $• 

"What  did  yon  want  of  me?"  she  asked. 
"I  suppose  you  are  vexed,  since  you  pinched 
the  Tortoise." 

"How  ridiculous  you  are!"  said  St.  Simon. 
Then  they  both  laughed,  and  put  by  their  ill- 
humor,  too  wise  to  waste  it  when  It  could  only 
do  mutual  harm  to  have  a  misunderstanding,  or 
indulge  in  one  of  the  stormy  scenes  which  for 
merly  were  by  no  means  uncommon  between  the 
pair. 

"So  I  succeeded  with  the  Alleyne,"  said 
Fanny,  sitting  down  in  an  arm-chair,  whose 
soft,  fluffy  cushions  rose  about  her  like  crimson 
clouds,  and  brought  out  her  blue  dress  admira 
bly.  "  Did  you  succeed  as  well  ?" 

St.  Simon  took  two  or  three  turns  up  and 
down  the  room,  came  back,  and  stood  opposite 
to  her,  twirling  his  eternal  cigarette  in  his  fin 
gers. 

"It  is  like  getting  hold  of  a  bit  of  polished 
steel,"  said  he,  frankly,  and  without  irritation. 

"Hum!"  quoth  Fanny.  "But  I  fancy  there 
•  is  a  flaw  here  and  there." 

"I  shall  depend  on  you  a  great  deal  to  work 
them,"  he  answered.  "You  do  not  forget  what 
you  told  me  that  first  night  we  were  talking 
about  him  in  this  room?" 

"Don't  be  so  horribly  exact.  I  never  forget 
any  thing,  St.  Simon." 

"Apropos,  I  have  a  letter  from  Miss  Dev- 
ereux." 

"  How  apropos  ?"  she  interrupted.  "Apropos 
to  what,  if  you  please  ?" 

"To  my  plans,  if  you  like,"  said  he,  biting 
the  end  of  his  cigarette  rather  venomously. 

Fanny  rejoiced  at  her  new  power  of  keeping 
him  in  order.  He  literally  did  not  venture  to 
lash  her  with  his  unmerciful  tongue  in  the  old 
smiling  way. 

"And  what  does  the  fair  Helen  say?"  she  in 
quired. 

"Here  is  her  letter.  I  had  just  read  it,  and 
was  coming  to  show  it  to  you  this  morning, 
when  Alleyne  appeared." 

He  took  the  dainty  envelope  from  his  pocket 
and  handed  it  to  her.  Fanny  glanced  at  the 
bold,  marked  superscription ;  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  touch  the  paper.  Absurd  as 
it  was,  the  sight  of  her  enemy's  writing  filled 
her  with  such  rage — remembering,  perhaps,  that 
Talbot  Castlemaine  had  sat  by  her  while  she 
wrote — that  Fanny  was  afraid  of  tearing  the  let 
ter  or  stamping  on  it — doing  something  insane 
or  nonsensical. 


"Please  read  it  to  me,"  said  she.  "I  nev- 
er  could  decipher  Miss  Devereux's  hieroglyph 
ics." 

"It  is  a  very  pretty  chirograph y,  and  a  very 
pretty  hand  that  pens  it,"  returned  St.  Simon, 
smiling ;  for  he  perfectly  understood  the  feeling 
which  prevented  Fanny  touching  the  epistle. 

There  was  an  odd  mingling  of  femininely 
acute  intuitions  in  St.  Simon's  nature,  along 
with  his  wild-cat  propensities  and  the  instincts 
of  divers  other  crafty,  cruel  animals.  Not  one 
man  in  a  thousand  would  have  comprehended 
Fanny's  refusal ;  but  Lucretia  Borgia  herself 
could  not  have  enjoyed  it  more  than  he  did. 

He  sat  down  and  read  the  letter : 

"DEAR  ME.  ST.  SIMON, —  I  have  received 
your  proposal  to  buy  my  lands  situate  in  Ne 
vada.  I  regret,  since  you  have  a  wish  to  pos 
sess  property  in  that  region,  that  I  have  no  wish 
to  sell.  It  is  very  probable,  as  you  say,  that  it 
may  be  many  years  before  they  can  become  of 
much  value  to  me,  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
might  do  a  foolish  thing  to  dispose  of  them,  as 
I  see  by  the  newspapers  that  silver  mines  in  the 
vicinity  (for  a  long  time  considered  unprofita 
ble)  have  lately  begun  to  attract  a  great  deal 
of  attention.  As  you  have  just  returned  from 
America,  perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  give  me 
some  definite  information  on  the  subject.  I 
shall  probably  be  in  Paris  late  in  the  autumn  or 
early  in  the  winter,  and  then  we  can  talk  the 
matter  over,  if  you  are  good  enough  to  favor  me 
with  a  visit. 

"I  trust  that  your  wife — to  whom  I  beg  you 
to  present  my  sincere  regards,  as  I  remember 
her  very  pleasantly — is  quite  well.  I  have  to 
thank  Miss  St.  Simon  for  the  polite  messages 
she  was  good  enough  to  send  in  your  letter — " 

Fanny  interrupted  the  reading  by  an  excla 
mation  of  wrath. 

"  You  sent  a  message  from  me — to  that  wom 
an  ?  Upon  my  word,  St.  Simon,  you  ought  to  bo 
strangled !" 

"I  read  that  out  by  mistake,"  said  he,  good- 
naturedly.  "After  all,  it  was  only  polite;  and 
though  we  cut  people's  throats,  let  us  do  it  po 
litely." 

"Not  hers!"  cried  Fanny,  flinging  her  gloves 
across  the  room.  "I'll  write  and  tell  her  that 
the  message  was  a  pretty  fiction  on  your  part, 
and  that  she  ought  to  have  known  me  well 
enough  to  be  sure  of  the  fact." 

"Perhaps  she  was,  but  she  had  to  be  civil  in 
her  turn,"  replied  he,  teasingly.  "However, 
hear  the  letter  out.  There  is  more  about  you." 

Fanny  knew  by  his  manner  that  something 
was  to  follow  which  he  fancied  would  stab  her 
sorely,  and  she  composed  her  face  to  spoil  his 
triumph. 

"I  have  to  thank  Miss  St.  Simon,"  he  began ; 
but  Fanny  interrupted  him. 


50 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"You  have  read  that  once,"  said  she,  disdain 
fully." 

"Ah,  yes.  Where  was  I?  Oh,  this  is  it; "and 
he  continued  the  reading  with  intense  enjoyment. 

"I  need  not  ask  after  her  health,  as  a  mutual 
friend,  Mr.  Talbot  Castlemaine,  is  here,  and  tells 
me  that  before  leaving  Paris  he  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  her,  looking  wonderfully  well,  and  as 
gay  and  brilliant  as  ever." 

St.  Simon,  as  he  read,  glanced  at  her  from  the 
comer  of  his  eyes,  and  saw  her  grow  red  and 
then  pale ;  but  she  met  his  scrutiny  with  such 
firmness  that  he  was  glad  to  go  back  to  the 
letter. 

"Allow  me  to  offer  my  acknowledgments  for 
the  interest  you  so  kindly  express  in  my  well- 
being;  to  assure  you  of  my  tolerable  content 
ment  in  this  prosaic  world ;  and  to  wish  you  in 
return  a  continuance  of  the  peaceful,  easy  frame 
of  mind  on  whose  possession  you  desire  congrat 
ulations.  Very  truly  yours, 

"HELEN  DEVERETJX." 

"How  intolerably  insolent  from  beginning  to 
end ! "  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"Do you  think  so?"  he  asked,  in  affected  sur 
prise. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  St.  Simon !  You  were  fu 
rious  at  getting  it,  I  know.  She  nips  you  very 
neatly,  I  must  say;"  and  Fanny  laughed  in  her 
turn.  "She  evidently  knows  the  value  of  her 
land  as  well  as  you  do.  I  told  you  from  the  first 
you  could  do  nothing  with  her." 

"  I  trust  you  find  satisfaction  in  the  accuracy 
of  your  judgment,"  he  said,  rather  pettishly. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  "We  need  not  nip  each 
other,  however,  because  Miss  Devereux  has  hit 
us  both.  Upon  my  word,  there  would  be  a  se 
rene  satisfaction  in  overreaching  that  confound 
ed  woman.  I  might  have  been  rich  long  ago, 
and  paid  you  back  your  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
if—" 

"  She  would  not  have  gone  prying  into  her 
own  affairs." 

' '  I  should  not  have  cheated  her — I  was  sure 
of  success.  If  I  could  have  got  the  use  of  some 
of  her  funds  for  a  while,  I'd  have  done  famously. 
Why,  when  she  was  with  us  there  was  that  busi 
ness  of  the  Spanish  bonds.  I  could  have  made 
no  end  of  money." 

"I  remember  her  outcries  and  her  sneering 
insinuations — " 

"Well,  don't  go  over  it.  A  devil  of  a  temper, 
too,  she  has,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us !  I  recol 
lect  her  tearing  the  power  of  attorney  I  had 
drawn  up,  and — " 

"  Suppose  you'd  got  it  ?"  broke  in  Fanny. 

"Why,  then  I  could  have  disposed  either  of  a 
certain  amount  of  stocks,  or  these  very  lands — 
there  was  talk  about  them  then — as  I  might  de 
cide  best.  You  know  I  was  ready  to  go  over  to 
America — " 


He  stopped  short,  and  remained  staring  in  as 
tonishment.  She  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and 
was  walking  up  and  down — an  inveterate  habit 
with  both  uncle  and  niece  when  agitated  or  pre 
occupied.  She  was  muttering  to  herself,  and 
looking  straight  before  her  with  an  evil  expres 
sion,  which  transformed  her  whole  face — she  look 
ed  positively  old  and  ugly. 

"  Quelle  mouche  Idpiqute  maintenant .'"  called 
he.  "  For  the  Lord's  sake,  don't  prowl  about, 
looking  so  like  one  of  the  Fates !" 

She  moved  toward  the  door. 

"I  will  come  to  you  presently,"  said  she.  "I 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"Well,  can't  you  say  it  now?  It  will  soon  be 
time  to  dress  for  dinner — by-the-way,  Alleyne 
promised  to  dine  here.  What  the  deuce  have 
you  got  in  your  head,  Fan  ?" 

"I  don't  know — I'm  not  sure,"  returned  she. 
"I  want  to  go  to  my  room  —  I'll  see  you  by- 
and-by." 

She  hurried  away,  and  left  him  muttering 
something  not  complimentary  in  regard  to  fem 
inine  insanities.  Fanny  went  to  her  chamber 
and  bolted  herself  in.  She  unlocked  an  armoire 
and  took  out  a  quaint,  heavy,  writing-desk,  which 
always  accompanied  her  in  her  wanderings.  It 
was  a  cumbrous  brass-bound  affair,  with  a  pecul 
iar  lock  that  might  have  puzzled  an  expert  burg 
lar.  The  key  to  this  desk  never  left  Fanny ;  she 
guarded  it  about  her  person  as  carefully  as  if  it 
had  been  some  sacred  relic.  One  portion  of  the 
box  was  arranged  for  jewelry,  the  other  held  pa 
pers.  She  put  the  desk  on  a  table,  and  opened 
it,  turning  over  the  contents  slowly.  She  came 
upon  a  letter  directed  to  Gregory  Alleyne,  at 
New  York ;  the  writing  was  Helen  Devereux's. 

Fanny  smiled  bitterly  as  she  glanced  at  the  en 
velope.  There  was  neither  trouble  nor  remorse 
in  her  face — nothing  but  a  cruel  triumph.  She 
recalled  the  events  which  had  urged  her  on  to 
this  and  a  deeper  treachery,  feeling  no  more  re 
gret  than  she  had  done  at  the  time.  From  the 
first  she  had  hated  Helen  Devereux,  not  so  much 
on  account  of  her  beauty  or  her  wealth,  as  for  a 
certain  truthfulness  and  courage  which  made  her 
unsparingly  severe  upon  artifice  of  any  kind. 
She  had  found  Fanny  out  in  one  of  her  plots 
and  thwarted  her,  taking  no  pains  to  conceal 
her  contempt.  From  that  moment  Fanny  vow 
ed  to  have  her  revenge,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  employ  the  sole  means  which  fell  within  her 
reach. 

She  laid  the  epistle  in  its  place,  and  continued 
her  examination  of  the  papers.  At  length  she 
discovered  what  she  wanted — a  legal -looking 
document,  with  parts  of  printed  lines  filled  up  in 
the  same  writing  as  that  on  the  letter.  Fanny 
read,  and,  as  she  read,  the  expression  which  had 
disfigured  her  face  in  St.  Simon's  presence  re 
turned  darker  than  ever.  She  was  roused  by  a 
tap  at  the  door.  In  answer  to  her  impatient  de- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


51 


mand,  Antoinette's  voice  answered  that  she  was 
there  with  a  note  from  monsieur. 

"Slip  it  under  the  door — I  am  lying  down," 
her  mistress  replied. 

When  she  heard  the  old  woman  walk  away, 
Fanny  rose  and  picked  up  the  billet.  It  con 
tained  a  few  words  to  say  that  he  had  received 
a  message  from  Besson,  and  was  obliged  to  go 
out — he  might  be  a  little  late  for  dinner  ;  Fanny 
must  not  fail  to  be  dressed,  and  ready  to  receive 
Alleyne. 

The  fanciful  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  six ; 
Fanny  had  been  too  much  absorbed  to  notice 
how  the  shadows  had  gathered  in  the  room. 
She  locked  and  put  aside  the  desk,  then  proceed 
ed  to  dress,  having  rung  and  given  orders  that 
the  maid  should  superintend  the  Tortoise's  toilet. 

When  half- past  seven  came,  and  Gregory 
Alleyne  entered  the  salon,  he  found  Fanny  there, 
looking  like  a  classical  priestess  in  her  white 
robes,  amiably  trying  to  teach  the  Tortoise  some 
new  stitch  in  crochet. 

The  dinner  went  off  nicely,  and  St.  Simon  was 
only  a  few  moments  late.  Old  Monsieur  Besson 
came  back  with  him,  and  Fanny  did  not  pay 
much  attention  to  Alleyne ;  he  almost  feared 
she  was  offended  with  him,  after  all.  St.  Simon 
smiled  at  her  artfulness,  enjoying  it  as  he  would 
have  done  a  well-acted  play.  He  perceived  that 
she  could  manage  the  new-comer  without  assist 
ance. 

For  a  little  while  in  the  drawing-room  Fanny 
was  more  cordial,  apparently  trying  to  be  at 
ease :  Alleyne  felt  quite  grateful  for  the  effort. 
Then  several  men  came,  Roland  Spencer  among 
them.  Fanny  did  not  forget,  when  he  was  an 
nounced,  to  prepare  Alleyne  for  her  intimacy 
with  him. 

"  He  is  the  nicest  boy  I  ever  met,"  she  said ; 
"I  do  hope  you  will  cultivate  him,  and  help  me 
keep  him  out  of  mischief.  The  idea  of  a  family 
turning  a  baby  of  twenty  loose  in  Paris !  Aunt 
and  I  have  him  at  the  house  as  much  as  possi 
ble,  and  feel  like  his  grandmothers." 

"You  must,  especially,"  said  Alleyne. 

"Oh,  when  a  woman  is  almost  five- an d- 
twenty ! " 

So  Alleyne  was  inclined  to  be  civil  to  the 
youth,  from  whose  age  Fanny  had  subtracted 
nearly  three  years ;  but  he  did  it,  or  Roland  fan 
cied  that  he  did  it,  in  a  patronizing  fashion,  as 
men  past  thirty  are  apt  to  treat  one-and-twenty, 
and  Roland  chafed  accordingly. 

When  they  had  all  gone,  St.  Simon  retired  to 
his  cabinet  to  write  a  letter.  He  had  not  sat 
there  long  before  Fanny  entered. 

"Bless  me!"  said  he,  "I  had  forgotten  you'd 
a  mysterious  communication  to  make  to  me. 
What  is  that  paper  ?" 

"It  is  the  power  of  attorney  which  Helen 
Devereux  did  not  tear,"  said  she. 

He  looked  positively  frightened  for  an  instant, 


then  bewildered.  He  tried  to  take  it  from  her 
hand :  she  held  it  fast,  but  permitted  him  to 
read  it. 

"  Why,  it  is  signed — witnessed  by  you — filled 
out  to  Jonas  Petty !  What  the  dickens  does  it 
all  mean  ?" 

"She  grew  very  amiable  after  her  rage,"  said 
Fanny.  "She  had  the  paper  in  her  hand  when 
she  came  to  my  room.  I  wanted  to  know  what 
a  power  of  attorney  really  was.  She  filled  this 
out,  just  to  show  me,  and  I  put  my  name  as  wit 
ness.  We  both  thought  it  burned.  I  found  it 
after  she  had  gone,  and  always  kept  it." 

She  ceased  speaking ;  the  two  looked  in  each 
other's  face  with  a  strange  glance. 

"It  could  not  be  used, "said  St.  Simon;  "it 
would  be  a  very  dangerous  business." 

"I  don't  propose  using  it,"  replied  Fanny, 
coldly.  "But  it  could  be  done,  if  a  Mr.  Jonas 
Petty  were  forthcoming. " 

"  The  best  thing  is  to  burn  it,"  said  St.  Simon, 
with  a  shiver.  "Pouff!  there's  a  temptation 
about  it  that  scents  horribly  of  state-prison!" 

"  We  will  not  bum  it,"  said  Fanny,  "  but  you 
will  not  use  it.  I'll  give  it  to  you ;  put  it  away 
carefully.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst — if 
every  thing  failed — your  fine  schemes  and  all — 
it  might  be  a  sort  of  hold  on  Miss  Devereux. 
One  never  knows." 

St.  Simon  locked  the  paper  up  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"THE  IRREVOCABLE  WORDS." 

TALBOT  CASTLEMAINE  lingered  in  the  village 
for  nearly  three  whole  weeks — long  after  he  knew 
he  ought  to  have  gone  to  his  aunt  at  Torquay, 
from  whom  he  hoped  for  a  little  aid,  though  she 
had  neither  the  means  nor  the  will  to  give  more 
than  temporary  assistance. 

Each  day  he  wondered  at  his  own  folly  in  not 
having  arrived  at  a  definite  understanding  with 
the  heiress,  and  called  himself  a  variety  of  uncom 
plimentary  names  when  he  perceived  what  ab 
surd  feeling  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  dilatoriness. 
Miss  Devereux's  fortune  would  set  him  right 
with  the  world,  and  afford  the  luxurious  ease  he 
craved.  Her  manner  had  so  completely  changed 
during  the  past  fortnight,  that  he  knew  now  was 
the  time  to  speak.  Still  he  hesitated  and  delay 
ed,  comprehending  what  an  idiot  he  was,  but  un 
able  to  control  his  vagaries. 

His  capricious  fancy  had  gone  astray  ;  for  the 
moment  he  was  actually  in  love  with  the  pretty 
wood-flower,  Marian.  He  understood  perfectly 
that  if  he  were  to  go  insane  enough  to  marry  her, 
he  should  hate  her  always  for  standing  in  his  way, 
and  shutting  him  out  from  wealth  and  advance 
ment  ;  yet  the  very  idea  of  relinquishing  her  kin 
dled  a  hotter  flame  in  his  heart. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


He  must  not  yield  to  the  feeling ;  existence 
was  too  hard  on  him.  Education,  example,  ev 
ery  thing  had  combined  to  leave  him  unable  to 
act  the  manly  part  he  would  for  the  time  have 
been  glad  to  adopt.  He  told  himself  this  over 
and  over,  trying  to  shift  the  blame  from  his  own 
shoulders  that  he  might  be  less  ashamed  of  his 
conduct.  Shame  and  remorse,  however,  were  no 
proofs  of  amendment,  or  even  a  desire  to  do  bet 
ter,  with  him ;  it  was  a  habit  of  his  to  indulge 
them  as  a  salve  to  his  conscience. 

In  the  mean  time,  while  imagining  divers  sub 
lime  things  which  he  might  accomplish  if  fate 
had  only  been  kinder,  such  as  marrying  Marian, 
winning  a  name  in  some  wonderful  career,  and 
the  like,  he  resolved  each  morning  to  propose  to 
Miss  Devereux,  and  each  night  cursed  his  stu 
pidity  for  having  dawdled  and  taken  a  longer  re 
prieve.  Nevertheless,  those  were  pleasant  weeks 
he  spent  in  the  quiet  haunt,  and  it  was  only  dur 
ing  his  solitary  hours  that  he  allowed  his  restless 
thoughts  to  trouble  him. 

The  weather  remained  enchanting,  and  almost 
every  day  the  young  people  had  some  plan  of 
amusement  to  occupy  them.  They  visited  all  the 
places  of  interest  within  reach  ;  for  Miss  Dever 
eux  proved  a  very  fair  pedestrian,  in  spite  of  the 
English  belief  that  American  women  never  walk. 
She  had  hunted  up  some  tolerable  horses,  too, 
and  Marian  was  learning  to  ride ;  and  latterly 
they  took  long  equestrian  rambles  among  the 
green  lanes,  where  the  warmth  and  sun  still  lin 
gered,  as  if  loath  to  forsake  the  beautiful  spot. 

When  they  were  idle,  and  indisposed  for  exer 
tion,  they  sat  on  the  lawn,  and  read  new  books 
which  Miss  Devereux  had  sent  down  from  Lon 
don. 

Marian  was  introduced  to  several  modem  po 
ets,  of  whose  acquaintance  her  Old-World  rela 
tive  would  scarcely  have  approved,  had  she  listen 
ed  to  these  readings.  But  Mrs.  Payne  was  fond 
of  solitude ;  at  least,  it  had  been  so  forced  on  her 
during  many  years  that  she  was  accustomed  to  it, 
and  seldom  gave  the  guests  much  of  her  society, 
though  she  liked  them  both,  and  was  glad  to  have 
Marian  happy.  * 

The  days  drifted  by  so  calm  and  uneventful 
that  there  would  be  little  to  chronicle  in  their 
course,  yet  singularly  bewitching  to  Helen  Dever 
eux  ;  equally  so  to  Castlemaine,  even  while  he 
smiled  at  the  life  he  was  leading.  It  would  have 
been  an  astonishment  to  those  who  thought  they 
knew  him  best  to  watch  him  at  this  time.  This 
rou£  of  ten  London  seasons,  this  tapageur  of 
doubtful  Paris  salons,  so  familiar  with  every  form 
of  vice  under  a  flower-crowned  front  that  dissipa 
tion  had  no  new  experience  to  offer  him — here  he 
was,  indulging  a  sort  of  idyllic  existence,  and  act 
ually  enjoying  it ;  able  even  to  put  by  his  care? 
and  troubles,  except  when  some  sharp  reminder 
reached  him  in  the  shape  of  a  dunning  letter  from 
a  creditor  who  chanced  to  discover  his  retreat. 


His  conduct  toward  Marian  was  perfect,  so  far 
as  externals  went.  The  idea  that  there  was  any 
thing  more  than  friendship  between  him  and 
Helen  had  quickly  vanished  from  the  girl's  mind. 
Their  sharp  badinage,  careless  habits  of  speak 
ing,  were  too  unlike  her  fanciful  ideas  for  any 
suspicion  to  remain,  and  the  very  freedom  with 
which  Miss  Devereux  talked  of  the  man  helped 
to  confirm  Marian  in  her  opinion. 

But  these  days  had  produced  their  effect  upon 
the  heiress.  She  recognized  in  Castlemaine,  as 
she  believed,  far  higher  qualities  than  she  had 
ventured  to  hope  he  possessed,  and  told  herself 
that  in  marrying  him  she  should  do  better  with 
her  thwarted  life  than  in  any  other  way.  The 
impossible  happiness  of  which  she  had  once 
dreamed  was  of  course  very  different  from  the 
reality  now  offered,  but  it  would  answer  well 
enough.  This  man,  spoiled  as  he  was,  could  at 
least  be  honest  and  true.  It  would  do  well 
enough,  and  Helen  informed  her  heart  that  at 
her  age  a  woman  ought  to  be  satisfied  when  she 
could  say  so  much  for  existence. 

"What  was  it  poor  La  Valliere  wrote  on  the 
door  of  her  convent  cell?"  she  abruptly  asked 
Marian  one  morning,  as  they  sat  together  in  the 
pretty  drawing-room. 

Marian  was  so  busy  with  some  piece  of  curious 
needle-work  that  she  scarcely  looked  up.  For 
the  last  half  hour  Miss  Devereux  had  been,  as 
she  often  expressed  it,  tiring  herself  by  watching 
her  friend's  conscientious  industry. 

"  I  can't  tell,"  the  girl  replied.  "  I  just  know 
who  she  was ;  I  d'ou't  like  French  history,  and 
grandma  took  Dumas's  novel  away  from  me  be 
fore  I  had  finished  the  first  volume. " 

"You  dear  little  Mouse!"  laughed  Miss  Dev 
ereux.  "'Not  happy,  but  content' — that  was 
it.  Never  mind  why  or  wherefore,  Blossom ; 
but  while  still  young  and  beautiful,  La  Valliere 
shut  herself  up  from  the  world  which  had  been 
so  cruel  to  her,  and  in  time  gained  courage  and 
strength  to  write  that  motto  on  the  door  of  her 
chamber." 

"  '  Not  happy,  but  content,' "  repeated  Marian, 
musingly.  She  had  laid  her  work  aside  to  listen, 
and  her  great  blue  eyes  were  full  of  a  child-like 
sympathy  and  wonder.  "It  seems  very  little, 
Helen  ;  life  had  not  left  her  much,  I  think." 

"One  might  have  less,"  returned  Miss  Dever 
eux,  sententiously.  "  'Not  happy,  but  content.' 
Yes,  indeed,  one  might  have  a  good  deal  less, 
and  still  live." 

"It  sounds  so  sad;  it  gives  a  whole  history 
of  such  suffering  and  regret,"  sighed  Marian. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  never  told  you  that  a  wom 
an's  experience  could  do  any  thing  else!  But 
no  matter;  when  one  reaches  a  stand-point 
where  one  can  write  La  Valliere's  watch-words 
on  one's  heart,  it  is  doing  very  well — very  well." 

"It  might  be,  when  one  was  old,"  Marian 
said,  doubtfully. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"  Oh,  who  is  ever  young  in  our  century  ?" 
cried  Miss  Devereux,  irritably.  "Yes,  you  are, 
Mouse.  What  eyes  you  have !  They  look  like 
a  child's  who  has  just  awakened  from  a  pretty 
dream." 

"Never  mind  my  eyes,"  returned  Marian,  so 
unused  to  compliments  that  she  colored  sensitive 
ly  even  under  her  friend's  admiration.  "What 
made  poor  La  Valliere  so  wretched  ?  Had — had 
she  loved  somebody  ?" 

"  She  was  a  proof  of  the  truth  of  the  Scripture 
warning,  'Put  not  your  trust  in  princes."  It  is 
not  a  nice  story,  Mouse ;  I  can't  tell  it  to  such  a 
baby  as  you  are.  Of  course  she  loved  somebody, 
and  equally  of  course  tb,at  somebody — a  king  in 
her  case — proceeded  to  make  her  wretched  with 
neatness  and  dispatch.  It  is  odd,  but  I  suppose 
women  will  continue  fools  to  the  end  of  the 
•world." 

"Do  you  call  loving  folly?"  Marian  asked, 
girl-like,  hesitating  somewhat  over  the  word, 
which  seemed  too  high  and  holy  to  be  lightly  ut 
tered. 

"I  never  heard  any  name  that  expressed  the 
sentiment  so  well,"  replied  Miss  Devereux,  dryly. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  exclaimed  Marian,  more 
decidedly  than  she  often  spoke.  "  You  don't  be 
lieve  it  either,  Helen,  though  you  scoff  and  mock. 
It  would  be  better  to  take  the  suffering  than 
never  have  the  love." 

"I  believe  Mr.  Tennyson  says  something  of 
the  sort,"  said  Miss  Devereux ;  "  but  I  dare  say 
in  his  case  it  is  all  theory.  It  is  false,  anyway. " 

"At  least,"  returned  Marian,  dreamily,  "one 
could  die." 

"Oh,  could  one! "cried  her  friend.  "My 
dear,  human  nature  is  very  tough,  and  doesn't 
die  easily.  Never  mind ;  some  time  you  are  to 
love  and  be  happy;  I  prophesy  it." 

"If  not,  I  hope  God  will  let  me  die ;  I  could 
not  live.  I  should  go  mad,  Helen !  When  I 
read  about  such  misery  in  novels,  it  makes  me 
wretched  and  afraid." 

Miss  Devereux  was  thinking  that  perhaps  the 
vrords  were  truer  than  the  girl  knew ;  thinking, 
too,  that  she  would  almost  give  up  any  hope  of 
future  peace  on  her  own  account  to  preserve 
Marian  as  she  was  now ;  sighing  as  she  remem 
bered  that  no  human  power  could  avail.  Mari- 
an  must  fulfill  her  destiny  like  the  rest.  Then 
her  thoughts  wandered  to  her  own  past — that 
which  she  strove  resolutely  to  put  from  her 
mind,  trying  to  believe  it  had  no  hold  upon  her 
save  as  a  bitter  memory. 

She  rose,  and  moved  aimlessly  about  the  room 
for  a  while,  in  a  reverie  which  Marian  did  not  at 
tempt  to  break.  No  confidence  had  been  vouch 
safed  her ;  Miss  Devereux  was  not  a  woman  to 
seek  relief  by  pouring  her  sorrows  or  grievances 
into  any  body's  bosom ;  but  Marian  comprehend 
ed  that  her  friend  had  passed  through  tempests 
of  which  she,  in  her  tranquil  life,  had  no  experi 


ence  ;  tempests  wherein  the  thunder- bolt  had 
desolated  some  beautiful  world  of  dreams,  and 
left  her  alone  amidst  the  ruins. 

At  length  Miss  Devereux  went  into  the  hall, 
saw  a  garden-hat  lying  on  a  chair,  and  the  sight 
of  it  inspired  her  with  the  idea  to  go  up  on  the 
hill  back  of  the  house,  and  have  an  hour's  soli 
tude.  But  there  she  came  face  to  face  with 
Talbot  Castlemaine,  who  had  gone  thither  before 
paying  his  daily  visit  to  the  cottage. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  steal  off  unobserved, 
and  solace  his  soul  by  a  quiet  season  with  Mari 
an.  Then  he  remembered  a  number  of  trouble 
some  letters  which  had  come  in  with  his  coffee, 
and  effectually  destroyed  his  appetite,  and  he 
called  himself  more  bad  names  for  presuming  to 
think  of  throwing  away  this  opportunity. 

It  was  destiny  ;  the  moment  had  come  !  He 
rose  from  the  mossy  hillock  where  he  had  been 
lying,  and  went  forward  to  meet  the  heiress, 
wretched  enough ;  furious  with  fate,  disgusted 
with  his  own  meanness ;  a  sharp  pain  at  his  heart 
too,  though  somehow  there  was  an  interest  given 
to  the  scene  by  that  very  sense  of  suffering. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  speaking  the  irrev 
ocable  words  ;  and  it  chanced  that  he  had  chosen 
the  time  well.  Helen  Devereux  sat  down  on  a 
rustic  bench  to  rest,  and  answered  him  frankly. 

"I  think  you  like  me,"  she  said;  "I  have 
grown  to  believe  in  you.  I  do  all  the  more  now 
because  you  say  honestly  you  could  not  venture 
to  think  of  me  if  I  were  not  rich." 

"  Not  for  my  own  sake — for  yours,"  he  replied, 
feeling  it  necessary  to  do  a  little  poetry. 

' '  Never  mind  why, "  returned  she.  ' '  I  should 
not  blame  you  if  it  were  partly  for  your  own.  I 
say  I  think  you  like  me — " 

"What  a  way  to  put  it,"  he  interrupted. 

"A  very  good  way,"  she  said,  smiling  grave 
ly.  "Well,  I  like  you  too;  but  I  must  tell  yon 
something.  When  I  was  a  goose,  ages  ago,  I 
thought  myself  in  love.  I  was  engaged,  and, 
oh  dear,  how  I  did  romance  and  Juliet !  Never 
mind ;  we  quarreled,  or  fell  apart,  and  passed  out 
of  each  other's  lives." 

"  But  you— " 

"Wait  1  I  may  never  feel  like  telling  you  the 
truth  again.  I  know  I  raved  over  an  ideal ;  it 
was  all  nonsense,  but  it  has  left  me  hard  and  un 
believing.  See,  friend,  will  you  take  me — will 
you  teach  me  to  have  faith  in  you  and  myself — 
— help  me  to  make  my  life  something  better  and 
higher  ?" 

He  was  in  a  mood  to  be  touched  and  soften 
ed,  and  for  the  moment  honestly  meant  the  words 
he  spoke. 

"We  will  try  together,"  he  said;  "I  am  a 
miserable  animal — but  we  will  both  try.'1 

She  held  out  her  hands  impulsively,  and  he 
saw  that  her  beautiful  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
But  even  as  he  pressed  his  lips  on  the  dainty 
fingers,  Marian's  image  rose  before  him ;  acting 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


grew  hard  work  again,  and  he  was  anxious  to 
have  every  tiling  decided  and  over. 

They  staid  there  for  a  long  time,  and  matters 
were  definitely  arranged  between  them.  The 
next  day  he  was  to  start  on  his  long-deferred 
journey  ;  in  a  fortnight  he  should  be  permitted 
to  visit  Miss  Devereux  at  her  Twickenham  villa, 
and  the  following  spring  they  would  settle  down 
into  sober,  rational  married  people. 

"You  are  not  to  go  to  the  house  with  me 
now,"  she  pronounced.  "I  want  to  be  alone  a 
little  while.  Come  this  evening ;  though  I'll  not 
have  you  make  Marian  suspect  by  any  nonsense ; 
I  hate  looking  like  a  simpleton." 

So  they  parted,  and  during  the  remainder  of 
the  day  Marian  found  Miss  Devereux  kind  and 
amiable,  but  much  more  quiet  than  ordinary, 
though  it  was  apparent  she  had  not  sunk  into 
one  of  her  gloomy  moods.  And  Marian  dream 
ed  her  own  golden  dreams,  unconscious  how 
deep  a  hold  they  had  taken  on  her  heart — not 
even  aware  of  her  secret  as  yet.  The  fortnight 
had  been  made  up  of  enchanted  hours  in  which 
she  could  neither  think  nor  rouse  herself,  only 
float  passively  on,  while  the  magic  light  grew  al 
ways  more  dazzling  and  the  vision  wanned  into 
fresher,  distincter  beauty. 

It  was  a  long  day  to  the  girl,  for  Castlemaine 
did  not  appear  to  give  light  and  color  to  her 
thoughts  by  his  presence,  and  she  wondered  why, 
when  the  afternoon  was  so  fair,  there  seemed  a 
great  want,  which  took  all  sense  of  peace  out  of 
its  beauty.  Evening  came,  and  for  a  space  Mar 
ian  forgot  the  dullness  of  the  previous  hours  in 
the  pleasurable  excitement  of  sensations,  which 
she  had  not  ventured  to  analyze,  brought  by  his 
society.  But  it  did  not  last  long.  lie  had  talk 
ed  with  her  in  the  moonlighted  window  while 
Miss  Devereux  sat  beside  grandma  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  and  then  the  time  for  the  old 
lady  to  retire  arrived,  and  Marian  went  with  her 
upstairs,  according  to  her  habit. 

As  she  returned  to  the  drawing  -  room,  Miss 
Devereux  was  seated  by  the  table,  working  ir 
reparable  injury  to  Marian's  embroidery  in  a  sud 
den  fit  of  industry,  and  Castlemaine  was  walking 
up  and  down.  The  first  words  the  girl  caught 
from  his  lips  struck  a  cruel  blow  to  the  dream 
in  which  she  had  been  living. 

"If  I  leave  here  to-morrow  at  noon,"  he  said, 
"  I  shall  reach  Torquay  by  evening.  Upon  my 
word,  it  is  like  going  away  from  the  land  of  the 
lotus-eaters!  When  shall  I  have  such  a  fort 
night  again  ?" 

Miss  Devereux  laughed  in  good-natured  mock 
ery,  and  before  Marian  could  shrink  back  into 
the  darkness  of  the  hall  to  recover  from  her  first 
confused  pain,  the  American's  quick  eyes  per 
ceived  her,  and  she  called, 

"Mouse,  do  you  hear  the  bit  of  amateur 
'  Childe  Harold '  this  young  gentleman  thinks  it 
proper  to  do  ?" 


Marian  moved  forward,  and  sat  down  in  the 
shadow  ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  walk 
unsteadily,  and  she  dreaded  observation.  Miss 
Devereux  was  busy  accomplishing  more  hopeless 
havoc  in  the  embroidery,  and  did  not  notice  her ; 
but  Castlemaine  realized  in  that  moment  what 
he  had  before  tried  to  disbelieve. 

"You  will  do  me  justice,  Miss  Payne,"  he 
said  ;  "you  know  I  am  sorry  to  go  away,  and  I 
must  to-morrow." 

There  was  no  need  for  Marian  to  speak  ;  Miss 
Devereux  was  laughing  and  teasing  him,  and 
Marian  could  sit  quiet  and  recover  her  composure 
in  that  marvelous  way  the  weakest  woman  will 
when  upon  it  depends  the  hiding  of  her  heart's 
secret.  Castlemaine  watched  her  furtively  ;  an 
answering  trouble  rose  in  his  own  breast,  and 
with  it  a  spasm  of  such  blind,  unreasoning  rage 
against  Helen  Devereux,  that  he  longed  to  rush 
forward  and  choke  her  to  death  while  the  care 
less  laughter  was  still  on  her  lips. 

Marian  knew  she  must  get  out  of  the  room. 
Whether  moments  or  hours  elapsed,  she  could 
not  have  told.  She  had  been  asked  questions, 
and  had  answered,  feeling  the  hot  blood  rush 
over  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  and  a  feverish 
strength  replace  the  faintness,  which  had  seemed 
to  her  like  the  chill  of  death. 

"Mouse,  go  and  sing  something,  like  a  dear," 
said  Miss  Devereux. 

"Just  one  song,"  urged  Castlemaine. 

She  went  to  the  piano  and  sung  their  favor 
ite,  "There  was  a  King  in  Thule."  When  she 
finished,  her  two  impulsive  auditors  were  con 
scious  of  a  dampness  back  of  their  eyelids,  but 
before  they  could  break  the  silence,  Marian  rose 
and  said, 

"I  must  bid  you  good-night  now.  Grandma 
wanted  me  to  come  back  ;  she  is  not  quite  well. 
Is  it  good-bye,  Mr.  Castlemaine  ?" 

"No,  no;  he  will  come  and  say  that  to-mor 
row,"  interposed  Miss  Devereux.  "Must  you 
go  upstairs  ?" 

"Yes ;  so  good-night." 

Castlemaine  was  standing  by  the  half- open 
door.  As  she  passed,  he  held  out  his  hand.    Their 
eyes  met :  it  was  only  a  glance,  but  it  sent  the 
girl  away  to  her  chamber  dizzy  with  a  sudden 
reaction  from  the  suffering  of  the  last  half  hour, 
and  left  Castlemaine  conscious  that  he  had  been  . 
as  false  to  his  vows  of  the  morning  as  if  he  had* 
put  his  passion  into  words.  \ 

"Marian  has  not  been  just  herself  for  a  few 
days.  English  girl  though  she  is,  I  fear  I  have 
walked  her  beyond  her  strength, "Miss  Devereux 
said,  with  that  strange  lack  of  penetration  which 
the  keenest  people  will  every  now  and  then  show 
at  the  instant  when  penetration  is  most  needed. 

Castlemaine  strolled  back  to  the  table  and 
looked  down  at  Miss  Devereux,  who  was  still 
occupied  in  ruining  Marian's  work.  Once  more 
that  desire  to  seize  her  by  the  white  slender 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


throat,  and  choke  life  out  of  her,  beset  him  like 
a  temporary  insanity. 

"My  dear  little  girl  is  not  very  strong," pur 
sued  Helen,  unconscious  of  the  danger  that  for 
at  least  a  second  menaced  her.  "There  is  con 
sumption  in  her  family ;  I  am  always  anxious 
about  her.  I  must  see;  perhaps  the  grand 
mamma  would  let  her  go  to  Italy."  She  stop 
ped,  and  began  to  laugh. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asked,  more  profoundly  irritated 
than  ever. 

"I  had  forgotten  a  promise  I  made  you 
yesterday, "Miss  Devereux  replied,  composedly. 
"That  might  interfere  with  my  plan  of  taking 
Marian  south." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  absently. 

"You  are  preoccupied,  in  fact  dull,  and  you 
have  been  all  the  evening,"  she  observed,  with 
the  candor  she  habitually  displayed  toward  him. 

He  tried  to  come  out  of  his  dark  fancies,  and 
say  something  suitable  to  the  occasion. 

"Not  much  wonder,  when  to-morrow  I  have 
to  go  away." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  be  par 
ticularly  agreeable  to-night,  unless  you  wish  to 
spare  me  the  trouble  of  missing  you.  Is  that 
your  self-sacrificing  idea  ?" 

He  did  his  best  to  adopt  the  tone  of  badinage 
which  their  conversations  usually  assumed,  but 
he  found  it  difficult.  He  went  away  early,  and 
the  night  he  spent  proved  far  from  an  enviable 
one. 

He  was  beset  by  remorse  for  the  trouble  he 
had  brought  on  that  innocent  girl,  full  of  self- 
contempt  and  loathing  because  he  had  not  man 
liness  enough  to  rise  out  of  the  sloth  and  errors 
of  the  past,  and  claim  the  sole  way  open  to  a 
better  future.  Heretofore  he  had  found  conso 
lation  in  the  thought  that  he  had  never  spoken  a 
syllable  of  tenderness  to  Marian  Payne,  but  he 
felt  now  that  to  let  his  eyes  and  voice  do  the 
work  was  equally  mean  and  false. 

At  the  first  she  had  been  a  pretty  psycholog 
ical  study ;  that  he  could  get  in  earnest,  he  had 
never  dreamed.  The  misery  and  shame  of  this 
might  prove  to  him  how  deadly  was  the  wrong 
he  had  wrought — and  it  was  too  late!  In  his 
selfishness,  his  desire  for  ease,  he  had  forged  a 
chain  which  held  him  fast,  and  he  knew  (despis 
ing  himself  the  more  bitterly  for  the  knowledge) 
that  if  he  could  break  the  bond,  he  had  neither 
strength  nor  nobility  to  do  so,  weakened  as  his 
nature  was  by  a  long  course  of  indulgence. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
"DEAD — AND  HE  LOVED  ME!" 

WHEN  Castlemaine  came  to  the  house  in  the 
morning,  Marian  was  not  to  be  found.  Miss 
Devereux  supposed  she  had  mistaken  the  hour 


for  his  arrival,  and  said  so ;  but  he  comprehend 
ed  that  the  poor  girl  had  not  been  able  to  trust 
her  courage. 

The  mute  avowal  which  she  had  read  in  his 
eyes  on  the  previous  night  had  persuaded  her 
that  the  period  of  his  return  would  not  be  dis 
tant  ;  then  he  would  make  all  things  clear.  She 
had  thought  this ;  he  was  as  sure  of  it  as  if  he 
had  heard  the  confession  from  her  pure  lips — 
those  lips  which  he  would  have  risked  his  soul 
just  to  kiss". 

The  betrothed  pair  jested  and  laughed  up  to 
the  latest  moment.  Castlemaine  had  better  con 
trol  of  his  reason  this  morning,  and  the  farewell 
was  any  thing  rather  than  tender.  The  hardest 
thing  for  him  was  to  beg  a  repetition  of  her 
promise ;  but  he  did  it — every  thing  was  defi 
nitely  arranged  anew.  It  was  a  relief  to  Castle 
maine  when  the  scene  ended,  and  he  set  out  on 
his  walk  through  the  wood  to  the  station. 

Better  that  Marian  had  not  come  in,  he 
thought.  She  was  only  a  girl ;  she  would  soon 
forget.  And  he — why,  he  was  so  mad  that  he 
could  not  tell  what  folly  he  might  have  com 
mitted.  Had  she  appeared,  had  he  read  pain 
and  unrest  in  her  face,  he  would  have  been  ca 
pable  of  flinging  off  disguises  then  and  there. 
Mad,  indeed,  at  his  age  to  be  so  near  ruining 
the  worldly  success  brought  at  last  within  his 
grasp !  What  had  he  to  do  with  dreams,  or  ro 
mance,  or  love  ?  To  dash  through  Vanity  Fair 
in  a  gilded  chariot,  and  smother  the  final  trace 
of  generous  feeling  under  its  dust,  was  all  destiny 
had  left  possible. 

And,  thinking  these  base,  miserable  thoughts, 
meaner  than  the  contemplation  of  what  men  call 
a  crime,  he  came  upon  Marian  in  the  depths  of 
the  wood.  The  white,  frightened  countenance 
raised  toward  his  was  wet  with  tears.  She  had 
come  thither  with  no  idea  of  meeting  him.  She 
only  wanted  to  be  alone  till  the  certainty  of  his 
departure  should  give  her  strength  again  to  meet 
her  little  world,  and  bear  its  scrutiny  with  a  show 
of  composure.  Better  the  agony  of  not  gaining 
a  word  or  look  of  farewell  than  accept  common 
phrases  in  the  presence  of  others. 

The  sight  of  her  rising  like  a  ghost  in  the 
midst  of  his  purgatorial  anguish  thrust  aside  the 
last  gleam  of  reason  he  had  so  laboriously  called 
up  for  the  interview  with  Miss  Devereux.  He 
had  never  in  his  whole  life  resisted  an  impulse, 
never  failed  to  bring  misery  upon  every  woman 
who  had  trusted  him ;  and  this  passion  seemed 
for  the  moment  stronger  than  any  which  had 
gone  before.  He  could  not  stop  to  remember 
the  scores  of  times  he  had  thought  this  same 
thing.  He  could  not  think  at  all ;  he  could  only 
see  Marian's  heart  in  her  face,  and  know  that  he 
loved  her. 

When  he  could  reflect,  he  was  holding  her 
hands  fast,  and  crying,  "You  do  care— you  do 
care.  I  thought  you  did  not  mean  to  say  good- 


56 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


bye,  and  I  was  so  wretched.  Oh,  Marian! 
Marian ! " 

The  very  sound  of  his  own  words  helped  him 
to  realize  his  madness  ;  but  it  was  too  late,  even 
if  he  could  have  controlled  himself.  Marian 
was  weeping  quietly  now,  her  head  resting  on 
his  shoulder  where  he  had  laid  it.  He  must  go 
on. 

"You  did  care,  Marian!  I  tried  to  believe  I 
was  vain — wild ;  but  it  is  true.  Tell  me  that  it 
is  true,  Marian." 

Her  lips  were  close  to  his  bent  face.  He  could 
not  resist;  he  fastened  upon  them  with  eager 
kisses,  and  held  her  strained  close  to  his  pas 
sionate  heart. 

"Do  you  love  me? — do  you  love  me,  Marian  ?" 

He  could  only  repeat  this  demand.  He  for 
got  Miss  Devereux —  his  future  —  every  thing. 
He  could  only  remember  that  at  last  the  covet 
ed  prize  was  within  his  reach. 

His  tender  insistance  forced  a  response  at 
length  from  her  lips,  and  the  broken  words 
cleared  the  last  mists  from  his  brain.  He  could 
think  now — perceive  his  insanity ;  but  it  was  too 
late — he  must  go  on. 

In  the  height  of  his  remorse  and  wrath  he  was 
conscious  that  he  must  do  a  Claude  Melnotte 
outburst  of  love  and  mystery,  with  truth  enough 
in  it  to  render  the  lie  more  galling  and  disgrace 
ful.  ' '  I  can  not  speak  f reely, "  he  said.  "  There 
is  a  secret  which  I  can  not  tell  you — will  you 
trust  me  ?" 

"Always,"  she  whispered,  and  her  voice,  low 
and  sweet  as  it  was,  scorched  his  soul  like  a 
flame. 

But  it  was  too  late — he  must  go  on. 

"You  must  bear  the  secret  with  me,  Marian, 
not  even  asking  what  it  is.  Can  you  do  this  ?" 

Again  that  happy  murmur  from  her  lips,  and 
he  must  add  to  the  base  falsehoods  just  uttered. 

"It  is  only  for  a  time,  my  darling,  my  pre 
cious — only  for  a  time.  Look  up,  Marian  ;  the 
world  has  not  come  to  an  end.  It  is  only  for  a 
little  while.  Will  you  wait  ?" 

"I  will  do  what  you  bid  me,"  she  answered, 
and  he  fairly  staggered  under  the  smile  which 
lighted  her  face  as  if  it  had  been  a  blow  from  a 
sharp  knife. 

What  did  he  mean  ?  was  he  coming  back  ? 
could  he  break  the  bonds  which  held  him  ?  It 
was  not  too  late.  Let  him  rush  to  the  house, 
tell  Miss  Devereux  the  truth,  claim  her  mercy 
and  generosity.  Oh,  he  was  mad — mad !  There 
was  no  time  to  lose,  the  train  would  start.  At 
least  he  must  have  leisure  to  think — to  look  both 
possible  futures  in  the  face ;  and  all  the  while  he 
knew  this  was  the  decisive  moment  —  now  or 
never!  He  could  go  back,  expose  his  meanness 
and  duplicity ;  perhaps  lose  the  chance  either  of 
love  or  wealth ;  but  at  least  commence  life  afresh 
— a  new  man.  The  last  chance ;  if  he  rejected, 
there  would  be  no  more  help  than  if  the  hell  to 


which  he  must  surely  sink  had  already  ingulfed 
him. 

He  went  on  pleading  with  himself  for  time, 
time — all  should  be  set  right.  The  old  promise 
so  often  uttered,  never  yet  in  a  single  instance 
kept,  as  more  than  one  grave  could  have  testi 
fied  ;  worse  still,  more  than  one  broken  heart 
doomed  to  live  under  the  blight  his  love  had  left. 
As  he  came  out  upon  the  rising  ground  near  the 
station,  he  heard  the  engine's  whistle,  saw  the 
train  halt.  But  the  delay  was  so  brief  that  he 
could  not  reach  the  place  in  time.  He  stood 
still,  and  watched  the  long  line  of  carriages  dis 
appear,  uttering  a  low  malediction  on  his  luck. 

For  a  moment  he  was  undecided  whether  to 
return  to  Marian ;  then  he  remembered  it  would 
be  a  more  consummate  folly  than  that  which  had 
gone  before.  He  had  endangered  his  future  suf 
ficiently  ;  his  wisest  course  was  to  get  away,  and 
trust  to  finding  some  means  which  would  in 
sure  Marian's  silence.  He  hurried  to  the  sta 
tion  ;  they  told  him  there  that  if  he  rode  over  to 
Ashurst,  a  town  ten  miles  distant,  he  would  meet 
an  express — otherwise  he  could  not  get  on  to 
Torquay  until  the  next  day.  He  made  arrange 
ments  to  have  his  luggage  forwarded  by  the  ear 
liest  train,  and  walked  back  to  the  village  to  ask 
the  landlord  to  find  him  a  horse. 

There  was  nothing  specially  to  gain  by  taking 
so  much  trouble,  but  he  wanted  to  be  gone.  He 
had  no  mind  to  meet  Miss  Devereux  or  Marian 
at  present ;  and  to  spend  the  day  shut  in  his 
room  with  such  thoughts  as  threatened  to  beset 
him  was  beyond  his- powers. 

There  was  a  full  hour's  delay  before  he  could 
find  a  horse ;  the  animals  Miss  Devereux  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  hiring  were  let  to  some  new 
arrivals.  At  last  Roper  succeeded  in  persuading 
the  groom  at  Denham  Lodge  to  lend  a  filly  he 
was  breaking  preparatory  to  sending  her  up  to 
London. 

Castlemaine  was  in  a  fever  to  be  gone ;  the 
least  hinderance  always  rendered  him  insane  to 
carry  out  his  plans.  He  mounted  and  rode  off, 
it  having  been  arranged  that  the  filly  should  be 
left  at  the  hotel  in  Ashurst.  He  took  the  hill 
road  which  led  not  far  from  the  cottage — not  in 
sight  of  the  house,  but  past  a  quiet  nook  where 
Castlemaine  and  the  two  young  ladies  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  sitting  during  the  pleasant  after 
noons. 

Helen  Devereux  had  wandered  out  of  the  cot 
tage  in  search  of  Marian,  and,  not  finding  her, 
sat  down  here  to  rest.  She  was  reflecting  upon 
the  change  in  her  life  which  this  new  decision 
had  brought ;  trying  to  believe  she  had  done  the 
best  for  herself  and  the  man  she  had  promised  to 
marry ;  blaming  her  own  folly  for  the  restless 
fancies  which  still  beset  her  in  spite  of  her  men 
tal  assertions  that  she  was  well  satisfied  with 
what  she  had  done. 

She  was  sitting  near  the  road,  but  hidden  by  a 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


57 


clump  of  trees,  which  also  shut  out  the  highway 
from  her  eyes.  She  heard  the  tramp  of  a  horse's 
feet  in  a  rapid  gallop ;  heard  a  sudden  plunge, 
an  angry  command  from  a  familiar  voice,  a 
heavy  fall — a  groan.  It  was  all  the  work  of  an 
instant.  When  she  gained  the  road  the  filly  was 
just  raising  herself;  close  by  lay  Talbot  Castle- 
maine,  and  the  upturned  face  was  like  the  face 
of  a  dead  man. 

She  reached  the  spot,  was  trying  to  raise  him, 
when  a  cry  from  a  woman's  voice  smote  her  ears, 
and  she  saw  Marian  beside  her. 

"He  is  dead!"  the  girl  shrieked.  "Dead — 
and  he  loved  me — he  loved  me!" 

She  fell  forward  in  an  insensibility  almost  as 
death-like  as  that  which  locked  the  senses  of  the 
man  by  whose  side  she  sunk.  Helen  Devereux 
looked  from  one  white  face  to  the  other.  Mar 
ian's  unconscious  avowal  had  made  this  man's 
treachery  as  clear  as  a  volume  of  explanations 
could  have  done.  It  seemed  to  her  that  hours 
had  passed  in  the  brief  instants  in  which  she  re 
mained  staring  at  the  two.  She  roused  herself 
from  her  stupor.  The  sound  of  heavy  wheels 
approaching  brought  back  her  capability  to  act. 
Castlemaine's  head  was  resting  on  her  knee ;  she 
laid  it  on  the  turf  and  rose,  still  gazing  from  his 
pallid  countenance  to  Marian's. 

The  farm-wagon  appeared  round  a  turn  of  the 
road ;  the  driver,  seeing  what  had  happened, 
checked  his  horses ;  the  two  men  with  him 
sprung  out  and  hurried  forward.  Miss  Dever 
eux  explained  the  accident  calmly  enough,  add 
ing  that  the  fright  had  caused  Miss  Payne,  whom 
the  men  knew  by  sight,  to  faint. 

One  of  the  laborers  ran  off  in  pursuit  of  the 
filly ;  the  other  said  to  Helen,  in  an  awe-stricken 
tone, 

"Is  he  dead?" 

She  forced  herself  to  stoop  and  put  her  hand 
on  the  prostrate  man's  breast ;  she  could  feel  his 
heart  beat  feebly.  She  was  conscious  of  a  hor 
rible  impulse  to  end  his  life  then  and  there,  that 
he  might  work  no  more  harm  in  this  world. 

"  He  is  alive," she  answered.  "Get  him  into 
the  wagon,  and  drive  to  the  inn.  Tell  Mr.  Roper 
to  telegraph  to  Ashurst  for  a  surgeon — to  have 
the  surgeon  come  over  in  a  special  train  at  once. 
Hurry,  before  Miss  Payne  comes  to  her  senses ; 
I  will  help  her  home,  and  then  come  down  to  the 
village." 

Her  practical  suggestions,  her  icy  voice,  ren 
dered  the  men  sensible  and  calm  at  once.  In  a 
few  seconds  more  the  wagon  rolled  away  bearing 
Castlemaine,  and  one  of  the  men  followed  lead 
ing  the  filly,  who  danced  and  frisked,  apparently 
greatly  pleased  with  the  success  of  her' exploit. 

When  the  vehicle  had  disappeared,  Miss  Dev 
ereux  seated  herself  by  the  roadside,  and  raised 
Marian  in  her  arms.  There  was  a  brook  run 
ning  near,  but  she  did  not  go  for  water,  or  do 
any  thing  to  hasten  the  girl's  return  to  con 


sciousness.  She  was  thinking  how  much  better 
it  would  be  if  the  pure  soul  need  never  come 
back  to  this  dreary  earth.  She  could  think 
calmly  enough ;  indeed,  as  she  sat  there  watch 
ing  Marian,  the  right  course  of  conduct  seemed 
forced  upon  her. 

Any  gleam  of  tenderness  she  might  ever  have 
felt  for  Castlemaine  had  been  killed  outright  by 
the  knowledge  of  his  treachery  and  sin.  If  he 
died,  she  need  not  remember  him.  She  was 
horrified  to  find  herself  so  hard  and  cruel,  but 
every  instinct  of  her  loyal  nature  was  so  out 
raged  that  she  could  not  control  the  sentiment. 
In  Marian's,  eyes  she  would  leave  his  memory 
untouched  by  a  cloud.  If  he  died,  it  could  serve 
no  good  purpose  to  tell  her  the  truth.  Let  her 
devote  her  life  to  adoring  his  memory — it  might 
preserve  her  from  other  loves  and  other  woes. 
If  he  lived  —  ah !  then  she  could  not  hesitate. 
Marian  must  be  told  the  truth — the  man's  real 
character  exposed. 

Yet  in  her  rapid  reflections  Helen  saw  that 
she  had  been  personally  wrong.  She  had  no 
right  to  engage  herself,  feeling  as  she  had  done, 
and  she  resolved  never  to  be  led  into  a  similar 
error.  Unless  she  could  so  utterly  forget  her 
old  girlish  romance  as  honestly  to  have  joy  and 
hope  in  the  affection  of  some  true  man,  she 
would  persevere  in  her  solitary  course.  And 
where  was  she  to  look  for  truth  now ! 

A  faint  moan  from  Marian  brought  her  back 
to  the  exigencies  of  the  present.  The  girl  open 
ed  her  eyes,  tried  to  struggle  to  her  feet,  stared 
wildly  about,  and,  finding  herself  alone  with  her 
friend,  almost  believed  for  an  instant  that  she 
had  been  dreaming.  But  the  truth  came  to  her, 
and  she  called, 

"Where  is  he?  What  have  you  done?  He 
is  dead — he  is  dead !" 

"  No,  Marian,  seriously  hurt,  perhaps ;  but  he 
is  alive.  He  has  been  carried  to  the  inn.  I 
have  sent  for  a  surgeon." 

"Let  me  go  to  him — I  must  go!"  cried  Mar 
ian,  trying  to  get  free. 

"Not  yet,"  Miss  Devereux  answered;  nnd 
she  could  hear  how  cold  and  measured  her  voice 
sounded.  "You  must  go  to  the  house  first,  and 
lie  down.  You  would  only  do  harm  ;  when  the 
surgeon  has  been,  you  shall  go."  • 

Somehow,  her  tone  and  words  brought  Castle 
maine's  warning  to  Marian's  mind ;  she  must  be 
silent.  She  had  no  intention  of  deceiving  her 
friend,  but  she  must  obey  him.  She  must  keep 
their  secret,  at  least  while  he  lived ;  she  had 
promised.  She  allowed  Miss  Devereux  to  raise 
her.  After  a  few  moments  she  was  able  to  walk, 
and  they  proceeded  to  the  cottage,  neither  speak 
ing  again  for  some  time.  Mrs.  Payne  had  gone 
to  spend  the  day  with  a  friend,  and  Deborali  was 
occupied  in  the  kitchen,  so  they  got  up  to  Mari 
an's  chamber  unobserved. 

"You  must  lie  down, "Miss  Devereux  said. 


58 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"  It  will  not  be  long  before  the  surgeon  arrives ; 
after  that  we  will  go  to  the  hotel." 

Marian  obeyed  passively.  It  was  almost  im 
possible  to  keep  still  —  to  refrain  from  rushing 
out  of  the  house  to  see  him  with  her  own  eyes. 
But  Miss  Devereux  had  reiterated  her  assur 
ance  that  he  was  alive.  Even  if  he  were  to  die, 
it  might  be  days  first ;  and  she  dared  not  disre 
gard  his  parting  counsel. 

Miss  Devereux  was  in  no  mood  for  half  meas 
ures.  She  remembered  that  Mrs.  Payne  kept 
laudanum  in  her  room,  and  went  in  search  of  it. 
She  mixed  as  strong  a  potion  as  she  dared,  dis 
guising  the  odor  and  taste  with  some  powerful 
essence,  and  forced  Marian  to  drink  the  whole. 
In  less  than  an  hour  she  was  fast  asleep,  and 
Miss  Devereux  knew  she  would  not  wake  for  a 
long  time. 

She  put  on  her  hat  again,  and  walked  over 
to  the  village.  Mrs.  Roper  informed  her  that 
the  surgeon  had  just  arrived,  and  was  in  Cas- 
tlemaine's  room.  Helen  sat  down  in  the  little 
parlor  to  wait  until  he  appeared,  while  Mrs. 
Roper  felt  it  her  duty  to  wail  and  lament  with 
exceeding  vehemence.  She  wondered  much  at 
the  young  lady's  composure,  and  decided  that  ei 
ther  American  women  were  monsters,  or  that 
the  stranger  was  not  Mr.  Castlemaine's  "sweet 
heart,"  as  she  had  supposed. 

The  surgeon's  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs  at 
last. 

"Please  ask  him  to  come  here,"  Miss  Dever 
eux  said.  "I  wish  to  see  him  alone." 

And  Mrs.  Roper  retreated,  somewhat  afraid 
of  the  pale  beauty,  and  thinking  that,  in  all  her 
born  days,  she  had  never  seen  any  woman  so  si 
lent,  so  stony,  and  so  proud. 

Miss  Devereux  had  met  the  surgeon  once 
when  she  was  at  Ashurst  with  Mrs.  Payne  and 
Marian.  The  old  gentleman  was  a  rabid  ento 
mologist,  and  had  a  famous  collection  of  horri 
ble  insects,  which  they  went  to  look  at  and  shud 
der  over.  Castlemaine  had  been  with  them,  too. 
As  the  surgeon  opened  the  door  Helen  was 
thinking  of  that  visit :  it  was  on  that  very  sunny 
afternoon  while  they  were  alone  for  a  while,  and 
he  talked  so  honestly  and  well  that  she  had 
definitely  resolved  she  could  trust  him  and  her 
self. 

But  the  surgeon  was  beside  her,  expressing 
his  delight  at  meeting  her  again,  his  grief  at  the 
melancholy  circumstance  which  had  caused  his 
arrival,  his  assurances  that  every  thing  would  go 
well. 

"Then  there  is  no  serious  hurt?"  she  asked. 

"  No ;  he  was  dreadfully  stunned,  and  he  has 
not  his  senses  straight  yet ;  but  there  is  no  dan 
ger.  I  shall  stay  all  night  myself ;  he  will  prob 
ably  be  a  little  delirious.  I  have  sent  for  a  nurse. 
In  a  few  days  he  will  be  as  well  as  ever." 

Miss  Devereux's  first  thought  was  of  Marian ; 
how  could  she  tell  her  the  truth  ?  Oh !  it  would 


have  been  a  mercy  had  the  girl  died  in  the  shock 
of  the  disaster. 

"It  is  a  very  odd  thing,"  the  surgeon  was 
saying,  "but  Mr.  Castlemaine,  when  he  gets  up, 
will  have  tidings  that  may  make  him  still  more 
thankful  that  he  is  not  obliged  to  leave  this  much- 
abused  world." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He  has  come  into  a  baronetcy  and  a  fort 
une  —  neither  of  them  unpleasant  surprises.  I 
had  the  news  just  before  I  started ;  a  friend 
who  came  from  London  this  morning  told  me. 
There  is  a  telegram  upstairs  which  I  suppose  an 
nounces  the  tidings." 

"  I  think  there  must  be  a  mistake,"  Miss 
Devereux  said.  "Mr.  Castlemaine  has  told 
me  there  are  three  lives  between  him  and  the 
title." 

"All  gone,  ma'am,"  said  the  surgeon,  eagerly, 
"in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye!  The  old  baronet, 
his  son,  and  nephew  were  lost  on  a  steamer  on 
their  way  to  the  East.  The  news  nearly  killed 
the  poor  young  wife,  so  the  hope  of  another  heir 
went  too,  and  our  friend  is  Sir  Talbot." 

"It  certainly  would  have  been  indiscreet  of 
the  filly  to  knock  out  his  brains  under  such  cir 
cumstances,"  said  Miss  Devereux,  with  a  rather 
hard  laugh,  as  she  rose  to  go. 

The  surgeon  wondered  how  he  could  have 
thought  her  so  charming  on  their  previous  in 
terview,  and  unconsciously  shared  Mrs.  Roper's 
opinion  as  to  her  pride  and  frigidity.  But  Miss 
Devereux  was  not  in  a  mood  to  disquiet  herself 
about  the  verdict  of  any  human  creature  in  re 
gard  to  her  looks  or  words,  and  left  the  worthy 
gentleman  with  scanty  adieus. 

She  found  Marian  still  asleep,  and  remained 
to  watch  beside  her.  She  had  met  Deborah  on 
entering,  and  Deborah  had  heard  of  the  acci 
dent,  and  was  inclined  to  be  very  garrulous,  but 
received  slight  encouragement.  However,  the 
old  woman  assigned  a  more  charitable  reason  for 
Miss  Devereux's  odd  manner  than  the  landlady 
and  surgeon  had  done,  observing  afterward  to 
John, 

"She  an't  one  to  unbuzzom  herself  easy; 
I've  noticed  that.  And  it  was  enough  to  drive 
her  crazy,  and  poor  Miss  Marian  too,  seeing  the 
young  gentleman  tumble  afore  their  very  eyes." 

"There's  no  counting  on  the  way  gentlefolks 
'ull  take  things,"  John  averred.  "I  never  did 
believe  there  was  aught  uncommon  between 
them." 

"Then  it's  Miss  Marian, "pronounced  Debo 
rah.  "Do  you  know,  I've  been  a- thinking  that 
these  days  past." 

"You're  always  a-finding  a  mare's-nest,"  re 
turned  John,  cruelly;  and  then  for  a  few  mo 
ments  the  kitchen  was  less  tranquil  than  ordij 
nary. 

Deborah  did  not  like  "to  be  put  upon,"  and 
she  told  John  so  in  plain  language.  What  was 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


more,  she  didn't  mean  to  be,  and  he  might  under 
stand  it ;  and,  anyhow,  the  way  he'd  been  going 
on  lately  was  more  than  flesh  and  blood  could 
bear ;  and  if  he  thought  that  she  meant  to  stand 
it,  he  was  mistaken ! 

Fortunately,  John  loved  peace,  and  was  sel 
dom  rebellious  for  long ;  so  the  tempest  passed, 
and  left  their  domestic  horizon  as  clear  as  usual. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
TWO  T£TES-A-TETES. 

ST.  SIMON  was  full  of  business  in  these  days, 
and  enjoying  it  for  the  time  as  much  as  he 
would  have  done  some  new  species  of  dissipation. 
He  was  constantly  receiving  letters  and  telegrams 
from  New  York ;  his  cabinet  de  travail  became 
the  daily  resort  of  Americans  with  a  taste  for 
speculations,  and  always  a  liberal  sprinkling  of 
foreigners,  dazzled  by  the  glitter  and  apparent 
•  soundness  of  his  prospectuses  and  plans. 

The  wonderful  Nevada  Company  was  .attract 
ing  a  great  deal  of  attention ;  paragraphs  con 
cerning  its  might  and  certainty  of  success  had 
already  crept  into  the  Paris  newspapers,  as  a  rule 
little  given  to  paying  heed  to  such  matters.  But 
St.  Simon's  wide-spread  and  eccentric  circle  of 
acquaintance  stood  him  in  good  stead  in  many 
ways  at  this  period.  He  ranked  among  his 
friends  several  powerful  Bohemians  connected 
with  the  press,  and  he  knew  how  to  turn  that  in 
timacy  to  his  own  benefit. 

Fanny  declared  this  society,  sub  rosd,  was  all 
that  kept  her  spirits  up.  It  was  a  great  relief 

to  listen  to  the  witticisms  of  Monsieur  D , 

the  famous  dramatist,  after  the  platitudes  of  the 
heavy  people  St.  Simon  courted  so  assiduously. 
Those  very  droll  stories  which  C ,  the  brill 
iant  litterateur,  told  so  trippingly,  were,  com 
pared  to  the  conversation  of  the  Philistines  and 
respectables,  as  highly  spiced  meats  to  the  most 
meagre  Lenten  diet,  and  gratified  Fanny's  men 
tal  palate  exceedingly. 

She  was  glad  of  any  thing  which  occupied  and 
excited  her  into  passing  forgetfulness  of  her  per 
sonal  hopes  and  fears.  Ever  since  that  idea  of 
becoming  rich,  with  the  chance  of  happiness  it 
presented,  had  fastened  upon  her  mind,  Talbot 
Castlemaine  had  haunted  her  thoughts  night  and 
day.  She  had  long  believed  him  hopelessly  lost 
to  her ;  had  tried  persistently  to  put  his  image 
out  of  her  fancies  and  her  heart,  but  now  she 
ceased  to  struggle.  Once  convinced  that  St.  Si 
mon's  schemes  possessed  a  sound  foundation, 
with  those  stocks  he  had  presented  her  securely 
locked  in  her  trusty  desk,  and  the  belief  in  her 
mind  that  the  time  was  not  far  distant  when 
they  could  be  turned  to  a  golden  fruitage,  Fanny 
let  her  imagination  have  free  rein. 

She  was  restless  and  anxious  because  she  could 


not  immediately  inform  him  of  the  change  in  her 
prospects,  but  she  knew  he  would  be  little  affect 
ed  by  any  hope  held  out  for  the  future.  Any 
hour  evil  news  might  come  to  her :  that  was  the 
thorn  in  her  bosom  now.  She  racked  her  brains 
for  some  pretext  to  drag  him  away  from  Miss 
Devereux's  dangerous  vicinity,  but  her  craft  was 
powerless  here.  There  was  nothing  she  would 
have  hesitated  to  do.  Had  there  been  any  pos 
sibility,  she  would  have  blackened  him  hopelessly 
in  the  heiress's  eyes ;  but  neither  anonymous  let 
ters  nor  vague  hints  from  acquaintances  would 
produce  any  effect  upon  a  woman  like  Helen 
Devereux. 

She  could  only  wait  and  curb  her  fiery  impa 
tience  as  best  she  might,  trusting  always  to  the 
fact  that  Helen  would  be  very  slow  to  decide  in 
so  important  a  matter  as  marriage,  especially 
with  a  man  of  whose  reckless  past  she  knew  as 
much  as  she  did  of  Castlemaine's. 

She  had  but  an  inkling  of  the  truth,  in  reality, 
else  she  would  have  rejected  even  his  acquaint 
ance  ;  but  she  knew  enough  to  render  her  careful. 
She  would  want  proof  that  he  was  really  changed, 
and  determined  to  make  a  better  use  of  his  future. 

Fanny  smiled  sometimes  to  picture  Castle 
maine  doing  a  revised  version  of  the  Prodigal, 
and  rather  enjoyed  thinking  how  tiresome  he 
must  find  it.  She  smiled,  and  then  rushed  into 
one  of  her  insane  fits  of  temper  or  grief  to  fancy 
him  looking  into  Helen  Devereux's  face-  with 
those  dreamy  eyes  of  his,  whose  light  thrilled  her 
own  heart,  addressing  the  woman  she  hated  in 
the  honeyed  tones  which  had  roused  such  de 
licious  music  in  her  own  soul. 

More  than  once,  under  the  influence  of  these 
feelings,  and  her  fears  that  Castlemaine's  witch 
eries  must  rapidly  soften  the  heiress's  scruples, 
she  was  sorely  tempted  to  destroy  all  possibility 
of  his  winning  her.  She  could  do  it.  Late  as 
it  was,  she  could  clear  up  the  night  which  sepa 
rated  Helen  and  Gregory  Alleyne ;  do  it  with 
out  danger  to  herself.  That  letter  which  lay  in 
her  desk,  if  sent  to  its  rightful  owner,  would 
bridge  the  gulf  without  delay,  and  no  mortal 
would  ever  know  where  it  had  been  hidden  dur 
ing  this  long  season. 

But  Fanny,  even  in  her  impetuosity,  could  not 
forget  her  craft.  The  future  was  not  certain 
yet.  She  had  seen  so  many  notable  schemes 
fail  at  the  very  moment  when  their  success 
seemed  decided.  Without  her  fortune  Castle 
maine  was  beyond  her  reach.  If  she  attempted 
any  reckless  venture,  she  might  be  forced,  in  im 
potent  wrath  and  anguish,  to  watch  Helen  Dev 
ereux  serene  and  happy,  while  she  groveled  in 
outer  darkness. 

She  could  do  nothing ;  she  must  wait,  and  if 
the  bubble  burst — in  her  morbid  moments  she 
still  gave  St.  Simon's  project  this  disrespectful 
name — she  must  marry  Gregory  Alleyne  by  fair 
means  or  foul.  The  bare  thought  that  she  might 


CO 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


be  obliged  to  plot,  scheme,  maybe  humiliate  her 
self,  to  accomplish  this  end,  caused  her  to  hate 
the  man  almost  as  bitterly  as  she  did  Helen  Dev- 
ereux.  Otherwise,  in  many  respects  she  quite 
liked  him  as  their  acquaintance  went  on.  She 
had  expected  to  find  him  priggish,  sententious, 
and  tiresome,  and  he  was  nothing  of  the  sort. 
Then,  too,  she  had  a  genuine  admiration  for  his 
perfect  honesty  and  truthfulness.  Fanny  was 
capable  of  appreciating  high  moral  traits,  unless 
they  interfered  with  some  plan  of  her  own,  and 
always  believed  that  she  should  have  been  the 
possessor  of  the  same  good  qualities  had  her  life 
been  different. 

She  succeeded  in  making  Gregory  Alleyne  very 
fond  of  her  society,  and  he  spent  more  hours 
in  St.  Simon's  drawing-room  than  poor  Roland 
Spencer  approved.  Fanny  was  sorry  for  the  boy 
— genuinely  sorry ;  she  was  such  a  mass  of  con 
tradictions  !  She  used  to  take  infinite  trouble 
to  give  him  Dleasant  interviews ;  let  him  walk 
out  with  her,  &t  quietly  in  the  Tortoise's  sanc 
tum,  and  help  amuse  that  chaotic  body ;  and  al 
together  found  means  to  offer  a  great  deal  of  hap 
piness,  in  spite  of  the  jealousy  toward  Alleyne 
which  began  to  torment  him. 

Alleyne  thought  Fanny's  kindness  to  this 
youth,  and  the  pretty  arts  she  employed  to 
keep  him  out  of  mischief,  among  the  nicest 
points  in  her  character.  He  would  gladly  have 
been  friends  with  Roland  too — went  to  see  him, 
invited  him  to  his  lodgings.  But  Roland  retreat 
ed  from  his  advances,  and  Alleyne  decided  that 
it  was  because  the  young  fellow  found  him  too 
old  for  a  companion. 

"And  I  suppose  I  am,"  he  said  one  day  to 
Fanny,  in  speaking  of  the  matter.  "Do  you 
know,  I  am  two-and-thirty  ?" 

"You  will  soon  need  crutches  and  a  wig," 
she  answered.  "But  please  don't  talk  about 
ages ;  it  is  very  American,  and  a  delicate  sub 
ject  with  me." 

She  laughed  secretly  at  Alleyne's  blindness  in 
not  perceiving  the  true  reason  of  Spencer's  avoid 
ance  of  him,  but  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  throw 
any  light  upon  the  matter.  The  boy  was  jeal 
ous.  Fanny  knew  it ;  though,  to  do  her  justice, 
she  did  not  suppose  that  his  fancy  for  her  went 
beyond  the  caprice  which  a  youth  of  his  age  often 
has  toward  a  woman  older  than  himself.  She 
still  persisted  in  her  theory  of  meaning  him  no 
harm,  and  his  naive  admiration  was  agreeable  to 
her.  She  kept  him  easily  upon  terms  of  friend 
ship,  for  he  was  shy  in  regard  to  this  beautiful 
dream  that  filled  his  soul,  and  was  glad  to  accept 
any  conditions  which  allowed  him  the  bliss  of  her 
society. 

He  came  in  this  very  morning  on  which  Al 
leyne  had  been  speaking  of  him,  but,  fortunately 
for  his  peace,  the  ogre  had  departed.  Fanny, 
aware  that  Roland  was  coming,  invented  a  pre 
text  for  sending  the  other  away. 


"  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  your  solemn  en 
gagement  to  come  and  help  me  wind  T.'s  netting 
silk,"  she  said.  "I  was  just  getting  vexed  with 
you,  and  wishing  I  had  kept  Mr.  Alleyne ;  only 
he  is  so  high  and  mighty  that  I  could  not  have 
ventured  to  ask  his  assistance  on  her  behalf. " 

"I  wonder  you  remembered  me  if  he  was 
here,"  returned  Roland,  rather  pettishly. 

"You  are  in  one  of  your  bad  moods,  I  see," 
she  said,  mischievously.  "You  wicked  boy! 
You  look  as  if  you  had  not  slept !  You  were 
off  with  some  of  those  wild  young  Americans  I 
have  forbidden  your  frequenting. " 

"  Indeed  I  was  not,"  he  answered,  eagerly. 
"I  didn't  sleep,  but  I  was  safe  in  my  room  very 
early — went  there  straight  from  the  cmbassa- 
dor's." 

"  And  yet,  in  spite  of  your  moral  behavior, 
you  did  not  sleep !  What  a  shame  that  your 
sagesse  should  have  met  with  no  better  re 
ward  ! " 

"  You  promised  to  be  at  the  Minturns,"  he 
said,  complainingly.  "I  waited  and  waited, 
till  there  was  nobody  left,  thinking  you  might 
come.  You  are  always  so  late,  that  I  did  not 
give  up  hope  till  old  Minturn  went  fast  asleep  in 
his  chair." 

"I  could  not  go,"  Fanny  answered.  "If  I 
had  known  in  time  I  should  have  sent  you  word 
— though  you  did  not  deserve  it,  I  perceive,  be 
cause  you  are  cross  with  me." 

"I  was  so  disappointed,"  he  pleaded. 

"And  I  was  sorry;  but  poor  T.  had  one  of 
her  neuralgic  attacks  just  as  we  were  ready  to 
go,  and  I  passed  the  time  rubbing  her  with  lini 
ment." 

She  had  told  Roland  that  she  should  expect  to 
meet  him  at  the  Minturns'  on  purpose  to  keep 
him  away  from  the  house.  She  had  spent  a 
charming  evening — the  doors  had  been  barri 
caded,  the  Tortoise  sent  to  bed,  and  St.  Simon  and 
Fanny  entertained  the  dramatist  and  the  littera 
teur,  and  pretty  Madame  F ,  who  once  held 

a  good  rank  in  society,  but  had  slipped  out  of  it. 
Fanny  enjoyed  her  company  immensely;  and 
though  she  never  visited  her  for  fear  of  meet 
ing  compromising  people,  madame  was  often  in 
vited  when  only  the  Bohemians  were  present, 
and  was  wise  enough  to  keep  her  own  counsel. 

"I  did  not  get  to  sleep  until  almost  morning," 
she  added,  by  way  of  utterly  overwhelming  Ro 
land  with  contrition.  "  Now,  aren't  you  a  little 
sorry  you  misjudged  me  ?" 

He  was  very  penitent ;  so  she  forgave  him,  and 
talked  pleasant  nonsense,  while  he  held  the  net 
ting  silk  for  her  to  wind,  and  looked  in  his  face 
till  he  grew  fairly  dizzy.  Sometimes,  as  she  la 
bored  to  undo  vexatious  knots,  her  head  was 
bent  so  low  that  he  could  feel  her  breath  warm 
on  his  cheek,  and  once  a  stray  curl  touched  his 
hand.  Roland  was  in  Elysium  ;  and  she  could 
see  plainly  enough  her  power  over  him,  and  en- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


61 


vied  the  boy  the  ability  to  be  so  young,  and  so 
delightfully  foolish. 

"But  you  have  not  thanked  me  for  sending 
Mr.  Alleyne  away,"  she  said,  suddenly. 

There  was  so  much  of  the  feline  element  in  her 
nature — she  resembled  St.  Simon  in  this — that 
she  could  not  resist  tormenting  her  prey  a  little, 
after  having  for  some  time  allovved  it  to  repose 
in  a  state  of  ecstatic  peace. 

"You  did  not  say  you  sent  him,"  he  answered. 
"You  only  told  me  you  were  almost  vexed  that 
you  had  not  kept  him." 

"Oh,  then,  you  think  I  tried  and  failed! 
Dear  me,  I  did  not  imagine  you  had  so  poor  an 
opinion  of  my  powers  of  persuasion." 

"  You  know  that  was  not  what  I  meant." 

"There,  there!  Don't  bounce  in  your  chair 
(bless  me,  if  the  Pattaker  heard  me  use  such  an 
inelegant  word !).  You  will  tangle  the  silk,  and 
I  have  almost  got  it  in  order  now." 

Then  Eoland  deliberately  did  bounce,  and 
throw  his  arms  about,  so  as  to  arrive  at  that  re 
sult.  Masculine  nature  is  capable  of  executing 
•wiles,  but  it  usually  needs  to  have  the  artifice 
clearly  pointed  out  by  the  acuter  feminine  intel 
lect. 

"I  believe  you  did  that  on  purpose,"  said 
Fanny,  tapping  his  fingers. 

"  So  I  did — just  to  prolong  your  work." 

"  "What  a  promising  youth !  Paris  air  is  hav 
ing  its  effect  on  you !  But  another  time  don't 
be  so  energetic.  I  must  cut  the  skein  now; 
these  knots  are  beyond  my  skill  and  patience." 

"  Did  you  really  send  that  man  away?"  asked 
Roland,  holding  the  silk  out  of  her  reach. 

"I  really  did.  Let  me  cut  it!  Had  I  not 
promised  you  that  you  should  come  and  help  me 
this  morning?  Don't  I  always  keep  my  prom 
ises  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  accused  you  of  that.  I  know 
you  are  truthful — " 

"Indeed,  I  am  not.  I've  told  you  so  forty 
times!  But  we  are  brothers — jolly  good  fel 
lows,  and  I  don't  mean  to  tell  you  fibs." 

She  uttered  the  improper  bit  of  slang  so  archly 
that  Roland  was  delighted.  She  could  do  and 
say  a  variety  of  things,  and  still  appear  lady-like, 
which  would  have  been  dangerous  for  another 
woman  to  attempt. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  tolerate  that  fel 
low,"  continued  Roland ;  "he  is  so  conceited 
and  proud." 

"Now  you  are  a  little  unjust.  If  you  would 
get  acquainted  with  him,  you  would  find  that  he 
is  very  agreeable." 

"I  don't  wish  to  have  his  acquaintance,"  said 
Roland,  impatiently. 

"And  I  am  miserable  if  my  friends  do  not 
like  each  other !"  returned  Fanny,  piteously. 

' '  So  you  call  him  your  friend  now  ?" 

"At  least  he  is  St.  Simon's,  and  I  have  to  be 
nice  to  him." 


"Perhaps  some  time  you  mean  to  marry  him, 
because  he  has  millions  and  millions,"  cried  he, 
with  an  angry  flush. 

"Perhaps  some  time  I  mean  to  go  to  the 
moon,"  replied  she,  calmly.  "Though  I  think 
it  is  you  I  shall  have  to  send  there  in  search  of 
your  wits.  No,  no,  Roland !  By  chance  I  know 
a  little  about  Mr.  Alleyne — this  is  a  secret,  re 
member !" 

She  tapped  his  fingers,  this  time  with  her 
dainty  scissors.  The  very  word  "  secret "  was 
bliss  to  his  ears. 

"Yes,  indeed!     Well?" 

"No,  it  is  not  well!  Mr.  Alleyne's  heart  is 
elsewhere,  so  I  have  no  hope  of  enjoying  his  mill 
ions.  Now,  then,  are  you  satisfied,  you  bad 
boy  ? — you  naughty  big  tyrant  of  a  brother,  al 
ways  suspecting  me  of  some  wicked  design!" 

She  knew  that  perhaps  in  a  few  weeks  she 
should  have  to  own  she  meant  to  wed  this  man ; 
but  she  did  not  scruple  to  use^frery  means  to 
tranquilize  Spencer  for  the  time.  According  to 
her  creed,  it  was  good-natured  to  make  him  hap 
py  as  long  as  possible ;  she  quite  regarded  it  in 
the  light  of  a  meritorious  action. 

"Ill  never  suspect  you  again  as  long  as  I 
live,"  he  cried.  "  I  never  do,  really." 

"  I  shall  tell  you  another  secret  as  a  reward. 
It  is  very  important  that  Mr.  Alleyne's  name 
should  be  among  the  directors  of  the  silver  com 
pany.  Oughtn't  I  to  be  nice  to  him,  and  help 
my  uncle  all  I  can  ?  You  would  not  have  me 
worse  than  a  heathen  and  a  publican,  refusing  to 
do  my  best  for  my  own  flesh  and  blood  ?" 

"I  wish  it  was  I  who  had  the  millions.  I 
would  be  president  and  director  and  any  thing 
Mr.  St.  Simon  wanted, "he  said. 

Fanny  thanked  him  with  a  smile,  listening 
rather  absently  as  he  talked.  Still  she  was  think 
ing  about  him — thinking  what  a  relief  his  youth 
and  earnestness  were  in  the  arid  desert  of  her 
life — thinking,  too,  that,  no  matter  what  came, 
she  would  preserve  him  from  St.  Simon's  talons. 
She  was  likely  to  have  enough  troublesome  mem 
ories  on  her  conscience  before  getting  through 
this  world ;  at  least  she  would  give  herself  the 
comfort  of  remembering  that  she  kept  this  boy 
from  coming  to  shipwreck  througjji  her  relative's 
wiles. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  heard  a  word  I  said,"  ho 
exclaimed. 

"  I  can  repeat  every  syllable,  if  you  are  suffi 
ciently  enamored  of  your  own  sentences  to  wish 
it,"  she  replied. 

"But  you  look  so  absent." 

"You  wretched  boy!  When  you  can't  quar 
rel  with  me  about  any  thing  else,  you  find  fault 
with  my  looks !  You  are  getting  worse  than  tho 
dragon  of  Wantley — who  was  that  beast,  by-tho- 
way?  I  get  the  dragons  of  history  dreadfully 
mixed  up  always,  and  somehow  I  invariably  fan 
cy  them  looking  like  the  Pattaker." 


C2 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


St.  Simon  wants  me  to 


Poetical  dreamer  though  he  was,  Roland  en 
joyed  nonsense  greatly,  and  never  failed  to  ap 
preciate  Fanny's  most  absurd  sallies.  But  his 
hour  of  contentment  had  ended.  While  he  was 
still  laughing  at  her  words,  a  servant  entered 
with  a  note.  The  lady  read  it,  and  said,  regret 
fully, 

"  I  shall  have  to  go. 
do  something  for  him." 

Her  worthy  relative  had  written  these  words : 

"  Come  into  the  study  to  look  for  the  news 
papers — Alleyne  is  here  yet.  He  is  better  dis 
posed  than  usual,  but  I  can't  bring  him  to  the 
point.  I  actually  believe  he  would  do  it  for  you. 
Put  it  as  a  personal  favor  —  coax.  You  could 
wheedle  the  devil  if  you  choose  —  may  be  some 
time  you  will  have  to  try !  Come  at  once  ;  I'll 
take  myself  off.  Now,  then,  to  work  in  earnest ! 
'Charge,  Chester,  charge,' and  let  Alleyne  pay 
the  expenses." 

St.  Simon  wauld  have  scribbled  a  jesting  let 
ter  if  he  had  been  on  the  road  to  the  scaffold. 
That  reckless  spirit  of  fun  which  he  and  Fanny 
possessed  had  been  a  great  resource  to  them  un 
der  many  trying  circumstances. 

"What  does  your  uncle  want  ?"  asked  Roland, 
in  an  aggrieved  tone. 

"  Some  help  in  his  correspondence.  He  writes 
nonsense,  to  put  me  in  a  good  humor.  I  must 
go ;  I  am  a  selfish  monster,  but  I  hate  to  refuse 
people.  Good-bye  for  to-day." 

"And  I  shall  not  see  you  again  ?"  demanded 
he. 

"We  are  going  to  the  Gymnase  to-night — a 
stage-box — if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  and 
choose  to  hunt  us  up." 

"But  there  will  be  a  lot  ot  people  about 
you — " 

"You  promised  not  to  be  so  exigeant. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  And  you  are  sure  we 
are  friends ;  you  do  like  me  a  little  ?" 

"Better  than  all  my  friends  put  together. 
How  abominably  I  spoil  you !  You  mustn't  kiss 
my  hand  twice — it  is  not  proper.  Good-bye." 

So  Roland  had  to  take  himself  off.  Fanny 
looked  in  the  mirror,  arranged  her  hair,  gave  a 
nod  of  approval  at  her  own  reflection,  and  passed 
down  the'corridor. 

"Don't  be  cross!  I  want  the  newspapers — 
poor  T.  has  not  seen  them;  you  carried  the 
whole  off,  you  dreadful  man! "she  cried,  half 
opening  the  door  of  the  study. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  called  St.  Simon. 

"You  are  sure  you  will  not  scold  at  my  intru 
sion?  I  have  waited  and  waited.  Antoinette 
said  the  men  were  all  gone." 

By  this  time  she  was  in  the  room,  and  saw 
the  visitor.  ' '  Good  gracious,  Mr.  Alleyne ! "  she 
continued;  "why  didn't  you  speak,  and  assure 
me  that  it  was  safe  to  enter  the  ogre's  den  ?" 

"A  fine  idea  you  are  giving  him  of  my  do 
mestic  tyranny, "laughed  St.  Simon. 


"I  am  only  afraid  of  you  here.  In  my  own 
territory,  I  acknowledge  no  rebellion,"  she  replied. 
"I  thought  you  had  gone  to  the  Louvre,  Mr. 
Alleyne,  and  here  you  are  still,  and  such  a  cloud 
of  smoke!" 

"I  met  your  uncle  as  I  was  going  down-stairs," 
he  said,  "and  came  back  to  be  guilty  of  helping 
fill  the  room  with  this  smoke." 

"I  have  been  hunting  up  that  book  we  were 
speaking  of,"  she  continued;  "and  I  find  you 
were  right." 

"I  will  take  the  newspapers  to  my  poor  wife 
and  make  my  peace  with  her,  while  you  ac 
knowledge  your  mistake,  Fan,  whatever  it  may 
be,"  said  St.  Simon  ;  and  away  he  went. 

"I  see  that  you  don't  even  care  to  hear  that 
I  am  convinced,"  observed  Fanny,  as  the  door 
closed.  "  You  look  tired  ;  have  you  been  bored 
again  with  accounts  of  this  silver  mine  St.  Simon 
takes  me  down  into  six  times  a  day  ?" 

"We  have  been  down  in  the  mine,  but  I  was 
not  bored,"  Alleyne  replied,  with  a  smile. 

Woman's  looks  possessed>  little  power  to  move 
him  of  late  years ;  but,  from  the  first,  Fanny  St. 
Simon  had  produced  a  certain  effect  upon  his 
mind.  He  did  not  think  of  loving  her — he  was 
long  past  such  weakness,  he  believed;  but  he 
admired  her  as  he  might  some  fine  picture,  and 
regarded  her  in  point  of  intellect  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  feminines  he  had  ever  encount 
ered.  Besides,  her  manner  and  style  were  a 
new  revelation ;  her  very  caprices  interested  him. 
He  could  not  resist  her  conversation  even  when 
she  deliberately  uttered  sentiments  of  which  she 
knew  he  disapproved ;  and  he  liked  to  argue  with 
her.  Then,  too,  she  let  him  see  that  she  was 
not  happy;  and  perhaps  this  fact  formed  the 
strongest  claim  upon  his  regard.  He  excused 
whatever  he  heard  to  her  disparagement  from 
the  Pattaker  clique  by  setting  her  coquetries,  her 
numerous  faults,  down  to  that  score. 

"I  am  glad  if  you  were  not  bored,"  she  said ; 
"but  I  must  say  your  looks  belie  the  statement." 

"Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  somewhat  an 
noyed — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  such  a  pretty  cry  of 
dismay. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  and  St.  Simon  got  on 
so  well  together." 

"So  we  do,  just  now;  that  is  another  reason 
for  my  annoyance." 

"Please  don't  talk  in  riddles,  else  I  shall  lose 
my  temper  in  a  minute!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  will  explain  what  I  mean  ;  only  I  am 
afraid  it  is  you  who  must  suffer  boredom.  In 
deed,  I  should  like  to  talk  with  you  about  it." 

"Then  you  shall,"  said  she,  seating  herself  in 
St.  Simon's  easy-chair  in  an  attitude  as  graceful 
as  if  she  had  studied  it  for  a  week.  "But  what 
is  the  mysterious  'it?' — you  quite  pique  my  cu 
riosity." 

"I  had  refused,  before  leaving  America,  to 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


G3 


have  any  thing  to  do  with  the  silver  company," 
he  went  on.  "I  have  retired  from  business — 
don't  mean  to  be  mixed  up  with  it  again ;  and 
I  could  not  conscientiously  allow  my  name  to 
appear  as  one  of  the  directors  when  I  did  not 
propose  to  pay  any  attention  to  the  matter,  or 
know  how  affairs  were  conducted. " 

"That  is  plain  enough,  even  to  my  feminine 
intellect.  Don't  frown ;  I  am  listening,  if  I  do 
jest." 

"I  don't  mind  your  jesting  ;  I  know  you  un 
derstand.  I  like  your  uncle  very  much — better 
than  I  ever  expected  to.  He  tells  me  frankly 
that  my  name,  added  to  the  list  of  directors, 
would  enable  him  to  do  all  he  wishes  here  with 
out  delay — I  me.an,  bring  in  so  many  stockhold 
ers  that  the  company  would  commence  opera 
tions  at  once." 

"And  you  are  sorry  to  refuse  him?" 

"  Naturally,  since  the  making  of  his  fortune 
depends  on  the  success  of  his  efforts  in  this  mat 
ter." 

"You  have  no  doubt  of  the  real  value  of  the 
mines-y-no  fear  of  the  stability  of  the  company  ?" 

"None;  all  that  has  been  proved  beyond  a 
doubt.  But  I  had  given  myself  a  promise  to 
let  business  alone.  TO  tell  you  the  whole  truth, 
I  have  been  ordered  so  to  do  by  my  physicians. 
I  have  used  my  miserable  brain  incessantly  for 
ei  good  many  years,  and  need  rest.  All  this 
iounds  selfish — " 

"It  sounds  nothing  of  the  sort;  you  will 
make  me  rude!  I  understand  perfectly;  you 
hesitate  because  if  you  let  your  name  be  used  in 
an  affair  of  such  importance,  you  would  feel  it 
your  duty  to  watch  that  the  interests  of  all  share 
holders  were  protected.  Half  these  schemes  ruin 
every  body  but  a  few  principal  men.  I  know 
that." 

She  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand  in  deep 
thought,  and  he  sat  watching  her.  She  burst 
suddenly  into  a  merry  laugh. 

"You'll  think  me  a  goose,"  said  she,  "and 
decide  that  my  opinion  is  not  worth  hearing ; 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  klea  keeps  starting  up  in 
my  mind." 

"  It  is—" 

"That  I  should  like  immensely  to  be  rich. 
We  have  several  times  been  awfully  poor.  St. 
Simon's  schemes  never  made  much  money  for 
'iim,  though  they  may  have  for  others.  He  is 

visionary,  and  lavish,  and  also  too  generous, 
low,  I  had  a  little  fortune  once.  I  thought  I 
•as  very  wise ;  part  I  invested  to  please  myself, 

irt  went  when  St.  Simon  was  in  difficulties. 

on't  blame  him,  it  was  my  fault." 

"If  one  can  call  it  a  fault,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  believe  you  do,  at  all  events.     Where 

is  I?    Oh,  wanting  to  be  rich!     I  did  not 

ive  faith  in  the  mine  at  first,  but  I  have  now,  and 

should  like  a  share  of  the  ingots.     Would  you 

ve  supposed  me  such  a  mercenary  wretch  ?" 


He  thought  her  frankness  and  honesty  the 
prettiest  sight  he  had  witnessed  in  an  age,  yet 
it  was  deliberate  acting.  St.  Simon — concealed 
where  he  could  overhear  the  talk — knew  this 
well,  and  began  to  see  what  she  was  getting  at, 
though  in  the  beginning  he  had  felt  inclined  to 
step  in  and  choke  her  slightly. 

"But  what  do  you  wish  to  prove  by  assigning 
to  yourself  this  character  ?"  Alleyne  replied. 

"  That  my  opinion  of  what  you  ought  to  do 
is  regulated  by  a  selfish  view  of  the  matter,  and 
so  not  worth  having." 

"  Will  you  let  me  me  have  it  all  the  same  ?" 

She  hesitated — only  because  she  knew  she 
looked  well  in  that  apparent  perplexity.  What 
she  meant  to  propose  was  perfectly  clear  to  her 
mind.  Her  acute  brain  had  already  regarded 
every  side  of  the  question.  Suppose  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst — that  is,  if  her  hope  in  regard 
to  Castlemaine  failed — she  meant  to  marry  this 
man.  She  would  not  have  his  wealth  run  any 
risk  from  St.  Simon.  That  there  was  something 
doubtful  hidden  under  the  fair  exterior  of  the 
plan,  she  had  never  ceased  for  a  moment  to  be 
lieve.  That  there  might  come  a  fortune  out  of 
it  for  St.  Simon  and  herself  in  the  beginning,  she 
hoped  ardently ;  but  if  not,  then  let  Alleyne's 
money  be  kept  safe  from  St.  Simon's  fingers,  or 
from  the  consequences  of  his  recklessness. 

"  I  beg  you  will  give  me  your  advice,"  Alleyne 
said,  earnestly ;  "  it  will  have  great  weight  with 
me,  much  as  you  seem  to  undervalue  it." 

The  look  of  doubt  changed  to  a  charming 
smile. 

"  You  don't  pay  compliments,"  she  said,  "  but 
you  manage  to  compliment  very  neatly,  neverthe 
less.  Since  you  believe  in  the  company,  become 
one  of  the  directors  for  a  certain  time — six 
.months — a  year.  Have  a  distinct  understanding 
that  you  are  to  retire  at  the  end  of  the  period  if 
you  choose ;  limit  your  actual  responsibility.  I 
can't  put  it  in  the  right  words,  but  I  know  it  can 
be  done.  Whatever  happened,  your  documents 
would  keep  you  clear,  not  only  from  loss — I 
know  that  is  not  what  you  are  fearing — but  from 
blame." 

He  sat  for  a  little  in  silence,  apparently  weigh 
ing  her  proposal. 

"Well?"  she  cried,  with  a  pretty  impatience. 
"Don't  look  so  serious,  else  I  shall  run  off  in  a 
fright." 

"What  do  yon  wish  me  to  say?"  he  asked, 
smiling. 

"Whether  the  matter  could  be  arranged  as  I 
proposed.  You  seem  very  doubtful. " 

In  truth,  he  had  not  been  considering  herwords. 
His  silence  had  arisen  from  a  sudden  conscious 
ness  of  how  sweet  this  girl's  society  had  grown 
to  him,  and  he  was  wondering  thereat — glad,  too, 
in  a  sort,  that  it  should  be  so. 

"I  don't  think  I  looked  doubtful," he  said. 

"  No  ?    Then  it  could  be  done  ?" 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"Yes;  or  something  similar  would  be  prac 
ticable." 

"To  think  of  my  turning  out  a  genius  in  bus 
iness  affairs!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  imagine  no  one  but  yourself  would  feel  as 
tonished  at  your  doing  so  in  those  or  other 
things." 

"Fie,  fie! "laughed  she.  "Then  you  could 
manage  to  oblige  St.  Simon — or  me — I  like  best, 
in  my  selfishness,  to  put  it  that  way— and  be  at 
rest,  no  matter  what  happened,  not  only  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  but  where  your  troublesome 
conscience  is  concerned?" 

"Certainly,  as  you  propose.  But,  after  all,  I 
fear  the  way  would  not  quite  suit  me." 

She  felt  herself  grow  hot  and  angry  at  the  idea 
that  even  yet  her  witcheries  had  not  wholly  sub 
dued  him,  but  she  only  said,  in  a  tone  of  mingled 
disappointment  and  contrition,  "  I  beg  your  par 
don.     It  is  very  selfish  of  me  to  tease  you :  don't 
let's  talk  any  more  about  it.     I  am  ashamed." 
"You  misunderstand  me," he  replied. 
"I'd  rather  do  that  than  have  you  misunder 
stand  ine,  because  I  should  prove  the  less  severe 
judge  of  the  two,"  returned  she,  moi-e  lightly. 
"I  did  not  refuse — " 

"But  my  plan  would  not  suit  you.  No,  no, 
Mr.  Alleyne,  I  will  not  have  to  remember  that  I 
worried  you  into  something  against  your  will. 
We  are  beginning  to  be  friends,  and  one  has  not 
friends  enough  so  that  one  can  afford  to  torment 
them." 

He  smiled  again  at  her  energy. 
"Now,  you  shall  let  me  explain, "he  said. 
"Oh!  oh!"  she  cried,  holding  up  her  hands. 
"You  are  accusing  me  of  rudeness;  you  inti 
mate  that  I  interrupted  you." 

Her  blending  of  fun  and  earnestness  he  thought 
very  graceful ;  but  he  was  too  anxious  to  set  hei 
mind  at  rest  not  to  speak  seriously. 

"I  only  meant  that  in  becoming  one  of  the  di 
rectors  I  should  not  limit  myself  to  a  certain 
time.  I  could  not  give  much  attention  to  the 
business,  but  I  have  entire  faith  in  your  uncle." 

"You  would  not  feel  it  necessary  to  bother  unc 
worry  yourself  to  death  ?" 

"No;  there  are  enough  wiser  heads  than 
mine  to  manage  the  business." 

"Then,  if  you  please,  I  want  to  be  rich,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  You  will  help  me  ?" 

If  she  had  entreated  the  sternest  woman-hater 
in  the  world  with  that  face  and  in  that  voice,  he 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  refuse ;  and  al 
the  suffering  Alleyne  had  endured,  poignant  as 
it  was,  had  failed  to  leave  him  this  odious  char 
acter. 

"I  trust  the  riches  may  bring  you  more  happi 
ness  than  they  do  people  in  general,"  he  said. 

So  Fanny  had  conquered !  Her  quick  fancy 
rushedfoff  to  the  hope  which  for  weeks  had  per 
sistently  haunted  her.  Castlemaine's  face  rose 
so  distinctly  that  it  fairly  shut  out  the  grave,  sac 


Still,  she  heard  his 


countenance   beside  her. 
words,  and  could  answer. 

"Better  wish  me  the  ability  to  use  them  right- 
y — though,  after  all,  your  wish  would  involve 
that,"  she  answered,  and,  excited  and  triumphant 
as  she  felt,  could  be  amused  at  her  own  hypocrisy. 
"  I  think  you  would  so  use  them,"  he  said. 
"Who  can  tteH?    They  might  help  me  bring 
a  little  good  to  otn^rs — perhaps,  though,  I  should 
not  try.    Do  you  reaiUy  believe  I  would  ?" 
"I  do,  indeed." 

"Well,  I  hope  so;  at  all  events,  I  hope  I 
shall  have  the  opportunirV  of  finding  outj"and 
she  began  to  laugh  again.  \ 

"  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  of  that ;  I  am  sure 
of  it,  indeed.  The  mine  can  no\fail  to  be  a  suc 
cess." 

"And  in  a  great  measure  I  sha\l  owe  it  to 
you," she  said,  softly.  "Do  you  knew  I  rather 
like  that  ?  I  believe  I  am  glad  to  feel  under  an 
obligation  to  my  friends.  Did  I  tmank  you? 
See  how  selfish  I  am — I  even  forgot  ujat !  But 
I  do  thank  you,  Mr.  Alleyne — indeed  I 'do." 

"I  have  to  thank  you  for  talking  freely  with 
me — " 

"And  what  a  time  St.  Simon  has  given  us!" 
she  broke  in. 

"I  must  go  away  now,"  he  said.  "I  ivill 
write  to  your  uncle  or  see  him  to-morrow." 

"And  I  may  repeat  our  conversation  ?" 

"  Of  course ;  my  mind  is  made  up." 

She  could  have  wished  he  entered  into  the 
matter  on  her  terms.  Still,  if  his  fortune  be 
came  necessary  to  her,  she  would  find  means  to 
get  him  out  of  the  affair  in  time,  should  the  grand 
promises  prove  a  myth ;  she  could  trust  to  dis 
covering  a  way  in  spite  of  his  Quixotic  ideas. 

They  left  the  study  together,  and  met  St.  Si 
mon  sauntering  leisurely  along  the  corridor. 

"I  have  been  reading  to  my  wife, "said  he; 
"  there's  devotion  for  you !  I  left  Alleyne  with 
you  on  purpose,  Fan.  I  had  badgered  him  this 
morning  until  he  was  almost  cross.  I  thought 
you  would  talk  nonsense,  and  put  him  in  a  good 
humor." 

"  She  has,"  said  Alleyne,  and  took  his  leave. 

Fanny  walked  straight  on  to  the  salon  without 
paying  the  slightest  attention  to  her  uncle ;  he 
followed,  humming  an  opera  air. 

"Haven't  you  any  thing  to  tell  me?"  he 
asked. 

"I  saw  by  your  face  that  you  knew,"  she 
answered,  disdainfully.  "It  is  disgusting,  that 
habit  of  listening." 

He  laughed,  not  in  the  least  offended. 

"The   prospect  of  wealth  makes  you  very 
decorous  and  rigid,"  said  he.     "All  right,  Fan  ; 
we'll  not  quarrel.     You  did  it  very  well.     I  do  •* 
enjoy  your  histrionics." 

" I  don't  wish  to  quarrel," returned  she.  "I 
don't  know  what  made  me  turn  rusty  for  a  min 
ute  ;  I  think  I  must  have  my  nerves.  Now,  St. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


Simon,  I  want  those  extra  shares  you  promised 
me  the  day  Alleyne  became  one  of  the  directors." 

"  I'll  make  them  over  to  you  as  soon  as  Bes- 
son  comes ;  the  new  maid  will  do  for  witness  as 
well  as  another.  Why,  Fan !  do  you  know  that, 
at  the  very  least,  you  will  have  a  quarter  of  a 
million?  You  can't  say  I've  not  dealt  fairly. 
In  fact,  a  good  deal  more  than  that,  when  the 
mines  are  really  under  way." 

She  smiled  complacently. 

"When  I  find  somebody  who  wants  to  buy  at 
that  price,  I'll  sell,"  said  she. 

"What  to  do?" 

"Oh,  build  an  asylum  for  old  maids,  against 
I  wish  to  enter  one." 

"Now,  see  here:  I  don't  interfere  with  you," 
cried  he,  "but  if  you're  getting  any  nonsense  in 
your  head,  and  mean  to  let  Alleyne  slip — ' 

"My  dear  St.  Simon, "she  interrupted,  "have 
you  perceived  any  signs  of  lunacy  in  me  ?  Haven't 
I  done  the  best  so  far  ?" 

"Yes,  you  have  managed  him  beautifully  in 
every  way,"  he  answered ;  yet  his  voice  bad  a 
dissatisfied  tone.  After  an  instant  he  added, 
"Perhaps  it  is  only  a  fancy,  but  you've  seemed 
to  me  plotting  something.  I've  watched  you." 

"It  is  not  worth  while,"  she  said.  "Devote 
your  mind  to  your  company ;  it  will  pay  better." 

She  took  up  one  of  the  newspapers  he  had  left 
on  the  table,  and  began  carelessly  glancing  down 
the  columns,  to  avoid  further  conversation.  St. 
Simon  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  allowed  him 
self  a  few  moments'  luxurious  idleness,  as  a  re 
ward  for  the  fatigues  of  the  past  weeks.  It  was 
plain  sailing  now.  Alleyne  had  carried  him 
nearly  into  port. 

He  was  roused  out  of  his  reflections  by  a  sud 
den  exclamation — almost  a  cry — from  Fanny. 

"What the  deuce  is  the  matter?"  he  called. 

"  I  hit  my  foot  against  the  table,"  she  replied ; 
but  he  caught  a  strange  quiver  in  her  voice,  and 
he  saw  that  the  hand  which  held  the  newspaper 
before  her  face  trembled  nervously. 

She  sat  still  for  a  few  moments  longer,  then 
rose  and  passed  quietly  out  of  the  room.  St. 
Simon  had  his  head  easily  pillowed  on  the  cush 
ions,  and  his  eyes  were  shut,  but  he  watched  her 
stealthily  until  she  disappeared. 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  he  got  up  and  went 
to  the  table — the  journal  Fanny  had  been  read 
ing  was  gone.  He  looked  over  the  sheets  which 
remained ;  with  his  wonderful  memory  for  trifles, 
he  recollected  noticing  that  it  was  a  copy  of  the 
Standard  she  had  held*. 

It  was  time  to  go  out.  Several  hours  passed 
before  he  had  leisure  to  enter  the  club,  but  once 
there  his  first  act  was  to  hunt  up  the  latest  Stand- 
~ard.  He  found  the  paragraph  which  served  to 
make  Fanny's  emotion  clear  —  the  account  of 
the  steamship  disaster  wherein  had  perished  old 
Sir  Howard  Castlemaine  and  his  heirs. 

"She's  a  fool,  after  all,"  he  thought.  "It 
5 


was  far  Talbot  she  wanted  the  money.  Bah! 
the  baronetcy  is  a  poor  one,  and  if  she  had  the 
wealth  of  the  Kothschilds  it  would  not  do.  No, 
no,  Fan,  it  would  not  do.  We  shall  have  our 
little  romance,  but  we  shall  marry  solid  Gregory 
Allevne  all  the  same." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

FACING  THE    CONSEQUENCES. 

As  the  surgeon  had  anticipated,  Castlemaine 
was  feverish,  and  partially  delirious  the  whole 
night ;  never  exactly  recollecting  what  had  hap 
pened,  or  where  he  was. 

It  would  be  poetical  to  describe  him  discoursing 
in  long  periods  of  his  love  and  treachery — im 
agining  Miss  Dcvereux  between  him  and  Marian 
— haunted  by  some  agonizing  recollection,  and 
conducting  himself  generally  after  the  fashion 
of  young  men  in  romances.  Unfortunately  for 
poetry,  in  delirium  people  almost  invariably  talk 
nonsense,  and  Castlemaine  proved  no  exception 
to  the  rule.  He  had  a  fancy  that  bis  fall  was  the 
result  of  an  accident  in  the  hunting -field,  and 
though  be  recogni/ed  the  surgeon  perfectly,  and 
occasionally  wondered  how  he  chanced  to  be 
there,  he  gave  him  several  elaborate  accounts  of 
the  misadventure,  usually  supposing  himself  at 
Castlemaine  Park — a  place  he  had  not  set  foot  in 
for  at  least  six  years.  In  some  way  the  accident 
had  been  Ralph's  fault ;  Ralph  was  old  Sir  How 
ard's  son,  and  he  and  Talbot  had  not  been  on 
speaking  terms  since  they  were  boys.  Ralph  had 
mounted  him  upon  that  horse  in  the  hope  of 
breaking  bis  neck.  Ralph  always  was  a  cad,  he 
informed  the  surgeon,  and  he  doubted  there  being 
an  ounce  of  Castlemaine  blood  in  his  veins.  It 
sounded  strange  enough,  and  not  just  pleasant  to 
bis  companion,  to  hear  him  vituperating  Ralph 
and  the  baronet,  while  the  telegram  and  letters 
which  announced  their  death  lay  on  the  table 
near.  But  the  surgeon  was  too  practical  a  man 
to  indulge  in  fancies,  and  as  the  evening  passed 
without  any  change  for  the  worse  in  his  patient, 
he  prepared  to  go  to  rest,  leaving  him  to  the  care 
of  the  nurse  he  had  summoned.  He  dispatched 
a  message  to  Miss  Devereux  to  say  that  every 
thing  was  going  nicely — in  a  couple  of  days  the 
young  man  would  be  as  well  as  ever,  barring  a* 
few  contusions  and  bruises. 

Castlemaine  slept  a  good  deal  —  restlessly 
enough,  of  course,  to  keep  the  nurse  from  getting 
any  repose.  Whenever  he  woke,  something  in 
her  appearance  invariably  struck  him  as  so  deli- 
ciously  droll  that  he  laughed  aloud,  more  than 
once  rousing  the  surgeon  in  the  adjacent  chamber. 
It  was  the  Tortoise  who  had  come  to  take  care  of 
him,  Castlemaine  informed  the  doctor ;  adding 
that  Fanny  had  sent  her,  and  she  had  come  iti 
such  a  hurry  that  she  had  on  St.  Simon's  boots. 


66 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


Fanny  had  gone  to  a  ball  at  the  great  Panjan 
drum's,  and  had  been  caught  stealing  some  lob 
ster  patties  to  bring  him  to  eat— it  was  very  ab 
surd,  was  it  not  ? 

The  surgeon  thoroughly  agreed,  and  laughed 
so  heartily  that  Castlemaine  pronounced  him  no 
end  of  a  jolly  old  brick,  and  said  that  his  nose 
was  dreadfully  crooked,  but  he  must  not  mind  it. 
He  was  very  earnest  on  this  point,  and  much  re 
lieved  when  the  surgeon  gravely  assured  him  that 
he  did  not  in  the  least  mind.  Toward  morning 
he  slept  more  quietly,  but  the  fates  had  decreed 
that  the  poor  doctor  was  to  have  no  rest.  As 
the  dawn  began  to  break  dismal  and  chill,  there 
came  a  tremendous  pounding  at  the  window  of 
the  room  on  the  ground-floor,  where  honest  Ro 
per  and  his  spouse  lay  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the 
just  in  their  broad  connubial  couch. 

The  din  woke  Mrs.  Roper  —  it  would  have 
been  easier  to  pull  the  house  down  than  to  rouse 
honest  Jacob  by  hammering  on  his  casement  at 
that  hour. 

"Fire!  murder!  thieves!"  was  Mrs.  Roper's 
first  agonized  cry,  strangled  among  the  bed 
clothes. 

But  in  one  instant  she  was  wide  awake,  and 
sitting  up  in  the  gloom  to  listen.  The  noise  con 
tinued,  and  she  recognized  the  voice  of  old  John 
from  the  cottage.  That  she  had  all  her  senses 
about  her  became  evident,  for  she  began  to  pinch 
Jacob  unmercifully,  and  shout  in  his  ear.  He 
bounded  np  like  a  great  India-rubber  ball — he 
had  lived  too  many  years  in  wholesome  awe  of 
that  voice  not  to  waken  when  it  sounded. 

"  Get  up  !"  said  his  wife ;  "  there's  something 
wrong  at  the  cottage — it's  old  John  calling." 

But  she  was  out  of  bed,  and  had  thrown  open 
the  sash  before  Jacob  could  move  again,  nearly 
knocking  the  unlucky  messenger  down  by  the 
shove  she  gave  the  shutter. 

"What  on  earth!"  she  cried,  leaning  over 
the  sill,  and  shaking  her  night-cap  at  John  in 
the  dim  light. 

"I  want  the  doctor— Miss  Marian's  took 
dreadful  bad,"  explained  John.  "Tell  him  to 
hurry  as  fast  as  he  can." 

Mrs.  Roper  was  not  a  woman  to  waste  time 
asking  questions.  She  lighted  the  candle,  got 
into  her  clothes  quicker  than  ever  female  did  be 
fore,  and  was  upstairs  bawling  in  the  surgeon's 
ears  by  the  time  slow  Jacob  had  his  senses 
straight  enough  to  reach  the  window,  where  he 
began  to  pour  out  inquiries  sufficient  to  justify 
an  assertion  often  in  his  wife's  mouth,  "that  he 
was  good  for  the  talkin'  part,  if  he  wasn't  for  any 
thing  else." 

Half-way  measures  were  not  in  Mrs.  Roper's 
line ;  so  she  accompanied  the  surgeon  and  John 
to  the  cottage,  aware  that  Mrs.  Payne  was  ab 
sent,  and  having  slight  opinion  of  Deborah's  effi 
ciency  in  a  case  of  illness  so  sudden  and  serious. 

"As  for  Miss  Devereux,"  thought  Mrs.  Roper, 


as  she  stalked  silently  on,  "she's  like  all  them 
gentlefolks — they'd  any  on  'em  let  each  other 
die,  and  do  nothing  but  wring  their  hands,  unless 
it  was  to  run  away  for  fear  of  catching  some 
thing." 

But  Miss  Devereux  disappointed  her  by  com 
ing  down -stairs  to  meet  them,  calm  enough, 
though  deathly  pale.  Marian  had  been  rapidly 
growing  worse  for  some  hours;  she  feared  an 
attack  of  brain  fever,  and  from  her  description 
the  doctor  shared  her  alarm. 

The  old  gentleman  did  not  get  home  early 
that  morning  as  he  had  promised  himself  to  do. 
He  could  not  leave  the  village  until  nearly 
night,  and  during  the  next  three  days  he  was 
obliged  each  day  to  return,  for  Marian  remained 
very  ill. 

Miss  Devereux  watched  by  her  constantly, 
soothed  Mrs.  Payne,  kept  Deborah  from  losing 
her  senses,  and  showed  herself  so  thoroughly- 
capable  that  Mrs.  Roper  rushed  out  of  her  prej 
udices  into  an  ardent  admiration  for  her  powers 
and  skill. 

The  morning  after  the  accident  found  Castle 
maine  doing  well,  though  sufficiently  weakened 
to  be  capable  of  no  thought  beyond  the  conscious 
ness  of  bodily  pain.  If  he  tried  to  remember 
what  had  happened,  the  attempt  caused  his  head 
to  throb  and. ache  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was 
glad  to  relinquish  the  effort,  and  lie  on  his  bed 
in  the  darkened  room,  and  yield  to  the  effect  of 
the  narcotics  which  the  nurse  had  administered. 

He  was  equal  to  little  more  during  the  two 
following  days,  but  on  the  morning  of  the  third 
he  woke  with  a  full  recollection  of  every  thing 
that  had  occurred. 

Sudden  as  the  accident  had  been,  he  remem 
bered  it ;  remembered  falling  from  what  seemed 
a  great  height — down — down  —  with  Marian's 
shriek  ringing  in  his  ears ;  for  as  he  went  over 
the  details  again  and  again,  he  was  certain  he 
had  heard  her  voice  crying  out  in  anguish  and 
frenzied  alarm.  He  could  not  recollect  Miss 
Devereux's  being  near — he  reached  her  name, 
and  then  other  reflections  than  wonderment  in 
regard  to  his  mishap  quickly  asserted  them 
selves. 

Nobody  to  his  knowledge  had  come  from  the 
cottage  or  sent  to  inquire  concerning  his  welfare. 
What  did  this  mean  ?  The  answer  came  as  rapid 
ly  as  the  question  had  arisen.  Marian  had  spoken 
— perhaps  unintentionally— revealing  her  secret 
in  her  terror  and  grief.  Marian  had  spoken,  and 
then  the  whole  disgraceful  facts  of  his  duplicity 
had  been  revealed.  Miss  Devereux  was  not  a 
woman  to  spare  him — he  knew  that.  Fortunate 
ly  for  his  throbbing  brain,  the  doctor's  arrival  in 
terrupted  this  reverie  for  a  little. 

He  took  refuge  in  a  sullen  silence,  but  was  ev 
idently  so  much  better  that  he  received  permis 
sion  to  sit  up  a  while. 

The  nurse  was  needed  at  the  cottage,  because 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


67 


Miss  Derercux  was  sorely  fatigued,  and  Castle- 
maiue  could  now  safely  be  left  to  Mrs.  Roper's 
care;  indeed,  the  doctor  said  that  in  a  day  or 
two  he  might  get  out  again.  Castlemaine  re 
ceived  the  information  in  the  same  dogged  si 
lence,  and  the  doctor  departed,  thinking  him  a 
very  cross-grained  chap,  after  all,  not  half  worthy 
the  good  fortune  which  had  so  unexpectedly  he- 
fallen  him. 

Alone  with  Mrs.  Roper,  Castlemaine  became 
more  communicative ;  but  that  worthy  dame  had 
received  instructions  from  the  surgeon  not  to 
mention  Marian's  illness.  Certain  words  which 
escaped  the  unconscious  girl  in  his  hearing  con 
vinced  the  doctor  that  there  were  closer  ties  than 
mere  acquaintance  between  his  patients.  Miss 
Devereux  had  taken  great  pains  to  explain  away 
any  real  meaning  from  Marian's  broken  excla 
mations,  and  the  surgeon  appeared  satisfied  with 
her  efforts.  He  held  to  his  own  opinion,  never 
theless,  and  determined  that  Castlemaine  should 
not  be  agitated  by  any  knowledge  of  what  was 
going  on  at  the  cottage. 

After  receiving  a  charge  to  be  cautious,  the 
tortures  of  the  inquisition  could  not  have  forced 
Mrs.  Roper  to  approach  anywhere  near  an  in 
discretion.  She  was  too  wise  to  run  the  risk  of 
irritating  Castlemaine  by  seeming  to  avoid  clear 
answers,  but  she  appeared  to  take  it  for  granted 
it  was  Miss  Devereux  he  wished  to  hear  about. 

That  lady  had  witnessed  his  accident,  she  said, 
had  arranged  for  his  removal  to  the  inn,  had 
summoned  the  doctor — done  every  thing,  in  fact. 

"I  will  say  she  showed  a  deal  of  sense.  I'd 
not  have  looked  for  such  from  a  lady,"  Mrs.  Ro 
per  declared,  feeling  that  the  admission  was  mag 
nanimous  enough  to  do  her  great  credit.  "She 
didn't  have  hystrikes  nor  nothing,  and  she  was 
down  here  a'inost  as  soon  as  the  doctor  him 
self." 

"But  not  since?"  Castlemaine  asked. 

"I  expect  she's  had  news,"  Mrs.  Reper  re 
plied,  shrewd  enough  to  catch  the  anxious  inflec 
tion  of  his  voice.  "You  see  there's  all  sorts  of 
odd  rules  for  young  ladies  that  I  don't  under 
stand.  But  she'd  have  her  news  reg'lar,  you  may 
be  sure,  with  people  back  and  forth  half  a  dozen 
times  a  day." 

"And  Mar — Miss  Payne — has  she  sent  to  ask 
how  I  fared  ?" 

"I've  been  too  busy  to  know  who  sent  and 
who  didn't,"  the  landlady  answered;  and  her 
voice  sounded  sharp  now. 

Mrs.  Roper  had  formed  her  own  idea  in  regard 
to  Marian's  illness,  as  well  as  the  doctor,  and  no 
longer  felt  her  old  liking  for  Mr.  Castlemaine. 
Indeed,  in  her  thoughts,  she  unhesitatingly  de 
clared  that, 

"Agreeable  as  he  was,  he  was  tricky;  and 
there  was  more  under  all  this  than  met  the  eye." 

Castlemaine  began  to  speak  of  other  things ; 
but  before  long  he  brought  Miss  Payne's  name 


up  once  more,  and  Mrs.  Roper  again  grew  rigid 
and  stony. 

"It's  time  you  took  some  broth,  and  chicken 
too, "she  said.  "It's  no  way  to  get  strong  let 
ting  your  insides  stay  as  empty  as  a  bell." 

She  rose  with  great  decision,  and  Castlemaine 
asked  no  further  questions.  Somehow,  his  dark 
est  doubts  seemed  answered. 

Mrs.  Roper  presently  appeared  with  a  bowl 
of  soup  which  might  have  tempted  a  saint,  but 
Castlemaine  would  only  swallow  a  couple  of 
spoonfuls,  and  then  she  decided  he  was  obsti 
nate,  and  left  him  in  dudgeon. 

He  sat  in  his  easy-chair,  and  looked  drearily 
out  of  the  window,  thinking  his  gloomy  thoughts. 
It  was  a  dark,  rainy  day.  The  wind  surged 
up  from  the  distant  sea,  complaining  and  chill. 
The  leaves  blew  in  showers  from  the  trees ;  and 
a  honeysuckle,  which  clung  sere  and  yellow 
about  the  casement,  tapped  restlessly  on  the  win 
dow-pane,  as  if  in  querulous  complaint  at  being 
kept  out  in  the  cold. 

Within,  the  scene  looked  pleasant  enough; 
a  fire  burned  cheerfully  on  the  hearth,  crackling 
with  a  heartiness  which  irritated  Castlemaine's 
nerves.  The  crimson  and  white  curtains,  which 
were  Mrs.  Roper's  pride,  cast  a  bright  glow  about ; 
but  Castlemaine  fairly  hated  the  home-like  air 
the  good  woman's  art  had  given  the  chamber, 
and  stared  persistently  out  at  the  dismal  land 
scape,  feeling  a  perverse  desire  to  annoy  the  doc 
tor  by  going  forth  into  the  rain  and  wet. 

He  knew  that  the  whole  truth  must  have  ap 
peared.  In  any  other  case  Helen  Devereux 
would  have  been  beside  him.  She  was  not  a 
woman  to  stop,  under  such  circumstances,  for 
people's  opinions,  or  to  regard  what  might  be 
strictly  correct  in  the  eyes  of  petty  moralists. 
The  whole  disgraceful  truth  had  become  plain 
to  her ;  Marian  had  revealed  enough,  in  the 
horror  of  witnessing  the  accident,  to  make  the 
quick-witted  heiress  understand  the  truth.  In 
her  turn,  Miss  Devereux  had  offered  revelations 
which  had  exposed  his  treachery  to  Marian.  He 
had  lost  every  thing — his  chance  of  wealth,  his 
place  in  Marian's  regard. 

If  he  could  only  have  been  killed  —  gone 
straight  down  to  perdition — anywhere,  for  there 
was  no  hope  left  to  him  in  this  world!  His 
creditors,  kept  in  grumbling  abeyance  by  the  re 
ports  of  his  good  standing  with  Miss  Devereux, 
would  descend  upon  him  more  furious  than  ever. 
The  heiress  would  go  to  London  or  Paris,  and 
so  render  patent  the  fact  that  he  had  no  chance 
where  she  was  concerned. 

All  this  was  bad  enough,  but  there  was  a  pang 
deeper  and  sharper  than  these  fears — the  intol 
erable  shame  of  knowing  that  his  duplicity  was 
discovered — the  idea  of  feeling  himself  an  object 
of  scorn  and  contempt.  At  that  moment  he 
would  have  done  any  thing  to  recover  his  hold 
on  the  esteem  of  those  two  women — toiled,  ac- 


68 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 
It  was  too  late ; 


cepted  the  hardest  penance, 
his  punishment  had  begun. 

I  have  said  he  was  a  man  capable  of  remorse. 
He  experienced  it  now  always,  though  with  a 
strange  pity  for  himself  under  his  abasement  and 
misery. 

Marian's  pure  love  seemed  better  worth  hav 
ing  than  aught  else  fate  could  offer.  The  treas 
ure  of  that  innocent  heart  brightening  his  stain 
ed,  soiled  existence,  might  have  made  him  an 
other  man.  He  could  not  help  believing  in 
himself  even  at  this  crisis.  But  it  was  too  late ! 
A  case  of  pistols  lay  in  his  portmanteau.  The 
best  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  load  one  of 
them  and  blow  his  brains  out,  with  as  little  de 
lay  as  possible.  At  the  worst  pass  to  which  life 
ever  brought  him,  he  had  never  before  thought 
of  self-destruction ;  but  now  the  idea  came  into 
his  mind,  and  haunted  him  with  dreadful  per 
sistency. 

The  loss  of  Miss  Devereux's  fortune  ruined 
his  last  hope,  but  he  did  not  think  much  of  this 
— it  was  Marian  he  deplored.  The  idea  that  her 
love  had  gone  from  him  roused  his  passion  to  a 
burning  height.  If  he  might  only  be  reinstated 
in  her  eyes,  he  could  bear  all  the  rest.  Expia 
tion,  hardships,  looked  easy  to  him  now.  •  He 
said  penitence  and  suffering  had  so  utterly 
changed  him,  that  he  could  never  be  the  same 
man  as  of  old.  He  only  wanted  her  affection  to 
help  him  on  toward  the  light,  and  he  had  lost  it ! 
If  he  had  only  told  the  truth,  as  he  was  so  strong 
ly  tempted  to  do,  on  his  parting  with  Miss  Dev- 
ereux !  Had  he  done  this  —  been  mnnly  and 
honest  —  how  different  the  future  would  look 
now ! 

Possibilities  which  at  another  time  he  would 
have  considered  madness  to  indulge  presented 
themselves  as  things  easy  of  accomplishment. 
Out  of  .the  wreck  of  his  fortune  he  might  have 
saved  hundreds  enough  to  establish  a  business 
of  some  sort  in  Australia.  He  might  have 
taken  Marian  and  gone  out  to  that  New  World, 
far  from  the  reach  of  old  associates  and  old 
temptations,  and  begun  afresh  —  worked  hard, 
paid  his  debts,  perhaps  have  accumulated  a  com 
petency. 

To  be  straightforward  and  courageous,  and 
lead  an  existence  free  from  the  follies  which 
clouded  the  past,  appeared  very  beautiful  to  his 
impulsive  fancy  just  now.  But  he  had  thrown 
away  his  last  chance ;  no  hope  of  expiation  or 
amendment  remained. 

The  day  dragged  by.  Castlemaine  vowed 
that  he  would  not  sit  there  and  spend  another 
of  such  torture,  though  going  out  were  to  prove 
certain  death.  If  it  only  might!  Then  he 
thought  of  suicide  again,  and  wondered  whether 
he  shrunk  from  it  in  sheer  cowardice,  and  was 
half  inclined  to  try  it,  if  only  to  find  out. 

He  spent  a  horrible  night.  Could  Miss  Dev- 
ereux  have  witnessed  his  mental  struggles  she 


might  have  decided,  stern  as  her  verdict  was  in 
regard  to  him,  that  they  had  proved  almost  a 
sore  enough  punishment  even  for  his  great  of 
fense.  But  Miss  Devereux  was  passing  a  sleep 
less  night  too,  by  the  bedside  of  her  poor  friend ; 
and  each  time  she  looked  at  that  sweet,  pure 
face,  drawn  and  changed  by  suffering,  her  heart 
hardened  still  more  against  the  man  whose  sin 
had  only  begun  its  awful  work. 

To  think  that  she  should  live  to  gaze  upon 
Marian's  beloved  features,  and  wish  she  might 
see  them  set  in  the  chill  repose  of  death !  Yet 
if  she  could  die,  it  would  be  the  greatest  mercy 
in  God's  gift.  What  a  life  lay  before  her,  if  con 
sciousness  and  strength  came  back ! 

Miss  Devereux  was  a  strong  woman,  and  she 
knew  from  an  awful  experience  what  it  was  to 
bear  existence  under  the  first  shock  of  knowing 
that  an  idol  had  proved  the  vilest  clay.  And 
Marian  was  not  strong — a  tender,  clinging  creat 
ure.  Oh !  how  was  she  to  bear  it  ? 

And  always,  as  she  asked  these  questions, 
Helen  Devereux's  soul  grew  sterner  toward  him 
who  had  wrecked  this  beautiful  young  life,  and 
her  shaken  faith  in  human  nature  wavered  anew, 
under  the  added  blow  given  it  by  a  man  whom 
she  had  liked  and  learned  to  trust. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN    THE   WOOD. 

EARLY  in  the  morning  the  doctor  stopped  at 
the  inn,  on  his  way  to  the  cottage.  After  day 
light  Castlemaine  had  fallen  asleep  from  sheer 
exhaustion,  and  was  still  slumbering  so  heavily 
that  the  surgeon  felt  his  pulse,  and  answered 
Mrs.  Roper's  shrill  whispers  without  waking  him. 

"He  will  do  well  enough,"  the  doctor  said,  as 
they  descended  the  stairs.  "  Give  him  plenty  to 
eat ;  let  him  go  about  if  he  likes.  He's  as  good 
as  cured,  except  his  bruises  and  weakness." 

This  happened  to  be  a  very  busy  day  with  the 
bustling  housewife,  so  the  verdict  caused  her  joy. 
There  was  baking  to  be  done,  there  were  rooms 
to  put  in  order;  and  many  times  during  the 
night  had  she  wondered  how  all  this  was  possi 
ble  if  she  must  sit  watching  Mr.  Castlemaine,  in 
stead  of  descending  to  spur  the  maids  forward 
by  her  sharp  tongue  and  the  effect  of  her  ex 
ample. 

Now  she  was  free.  Somebody  must  be  at  the 
convalescent's  beck,  she  thought ;  and  there  was 
Jacob,  the  useless,  doing  nothing,  as  usual. 

"He'd  keep  tin  a-doin'  nothing  if  the  last 
trumpet  was  to  sound,"  Mrs.  Roper  declared  to 
herself,  with  an  acidity  which  was  the  invariable 
accompaniment  of  enjoyable  hard  work,  though 
on  other  occasions  she  was  wonderfully  tolerant 
of  her  spouse's  inclination  toward  ease.  But  at 
present  Jacob  must  gird  up  his  loins  and  straight- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


G9 


en  his  back.  He  could  attend  to  the  guest's 
breakfast,  help  him  dress,  give  the  support  of  his 
arm  if  Mr.  Castlemaine  wanted  to  go  out — in 
fact,  show  himself  of  some  mortal  use  for  once 
in  his  life.  Jacob  had  not  a  word  of  excuse  to 
offer,  and  sought  for  none.  He  knew  that  on 
baking- day  a  spark  from  the  fire  caught  Mrs. 
Roper's  temper,  and  she  was  not  to  be  roused 
with  impunity. 

Jacob  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  talk.  His 
little  knot  of  friends  were  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
lloper's  baking-days  too,  and  never  came  to  sit 
with  him  in  the  porch  and  drink  ale  on  those 
occasions. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  after  the  rain  ;  the 
sun  had  appeared  in  great  pomp ;  and  as  it  was 
past  noon  when  Castlemaine  woke,  the  garden 
paths  were  already  dry. 

Poor  Jacob  was  disappointed  in  his  hope  of  a 
chat.  During  the  progress  of  his  toilet  Castle 
maine  never  opened  his  lips  but  once. 

"No  letters  for  me?"  he  asked.  "No  mes 
sage  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  said  Jacob. 

All  this  while  the  telegram  and  the  epistle 
from  the  lawyer  in  London  lay  in  a  desk  down 
stairs.  When  they  arrived,  the  doctor  had  de 
sired  Mrs.  Roper  to  keep  them ;  he  had  forgot 
ten  to  rescind  the  order  this  morning,  and  Mrs. 
Roper  was  a  woman  who  obeyed  to  the  letter  a 
physician's  commands.  Mr.  Castlemaine  might 
have  sat  in  his  room  for  a  month — he  would 
hear  no  word  from  her  lips  concerning  those 
documents  until  permission  was  given  by  the 
medical  man. 

The  old  surgeon  meant  to  go  back  to  the  inn 
from  the  cottage,  but  he  staid  so  long  he  had 
only  time  to  catch  the  return  train;  so  there 
was  nobody  to  give  Castlemaine  a  hint  of  the 
change  that  had  come  so  unexpectedly  into  his 
life. 

He  remained  in  his  chamber  until  the  solitude 
and  silence  became  insupportable.  There  was  no 
sound  but  the  steady  ticking  of  the  clock,  which 
irritated  him  to  a  degree  that  made  him  long  to 
break  the  odious  machine.  He  had  dismissed 
Jacob  very  curtly  when  he  panted  upstairs  in 
search  of  the  breakfast  tray,  and  felt  so  hope 
lessly  obstinate  that  he  would  not  ring  to  sum 
mon  his  aid  to  get  down-stairs — a  feat  he  must 
accomplish,  or  go  mad,  without  delay. 

He  succeeded,  though  his  steps  were  unsteady, 
and  his  bruised  arm  hurt  him  a  good  deal.  There 
was  a  kind  of  savage  satisfaction  in  suffering  the 
physical  pain.  He  astonished  Jacob  by  appear 
ing  on  the  porch  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
Jacob  broke  his  pipe  in  his  agitation,  and  was 
so  grieved  thereat  that  Castlemaine  laughed ; 
an  annoyance  to  any  body,  however  small  it 
might  be,  was  a  comfort. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  call,"  said  Jacob,  con 
fusedly. 


"I  don't  suppose  you  did.  It  is  quite  warm 
and  bright  here." 

But  Jacob  said  he  must  have  a  hat  and  great 
coat,  and  toiled  up  in  search  of  them.  Jacob 
thought  if  Mr.  Castlemaine's  convalesence  dal 
lied  he  should  become  a  skeleton;  ho  had  al 
ready  this  morning  mounted  the  stairs  more 
times  than  he  had  done  in  a  year. 

Castlemaine  sauntered  through  the  garden, 
and  Jacob  followed.  A  cigar  having  humanized 
the  young  man  somewhat,  he  condescended  to 
address  the  landlord,  whose  efforts  in  his  behalf 
he  did  not  in  the  least  appreciate,  unaware  that 
Jacob  was  almost  as  much  accustomed  as  he  to 
taking  life  easily  and  being  waited  on  luxuriously. 

Of  course,  in  less  than  twenty  minutes  poor 
Jacob  let  out  the  one  secret  his  wife  had  order 
ed  to  be  kept  religiously.  Castlemaine  learned 
that  Marian  had  been  dangerously  ill,  and  was 
still  confined  to  her  bed,  though  the  fever  had 
lost  its  alarming  symptoms,  and  seemed  more 
nervous  than  any  thing  else. 

Two  or  three  hasty  questions,  then  Castlemaine 
was  on  his  feet  and  hurrying  toward  the  gate, 
though  agitation  rendered  his  step  so  unsteady 
that  Jacob  waddled  after  in  terror. 

"Where  did  you  please  to  be  going?"  he 
asked. 

' '  Let  go  my  arm — to  the  cottage ! "  returned 
Castlemaine,  impatiently. 

"Patty  '11  be  outrageous  —  she  will,  indeed; 
she  told  me  I  wasn't  to  say  a  word,  and  it  come 
out  quite  promiscuous. " 

"Who  the  deuce  is  Patty?  Look  here,  Ja 
cob,  if  you  don't  quit  your  hold,  I  shall  inevita 
bly  do  you  a  mischief." 

"I  shall  get  the  mischief  if  Patty  finds  out 
I  told,"  groaned  the  luckless  Roper.  Then  de 
spair  rendered  him  brilliant — he  positively  found 
an  idea.  "  Let's  go  down  the  back  path,  sir, "he 
pleaded;  "we  can  get  out  by  the  wicket;  it's 
shorter  to  the  cottage.  I'll  show  you  the  way; 
you  mustn't  go  alone." 

Castlemaine  found  that  he  really  needed  as 
sistance,  and  was  fain  to  accept  Jacob's  arm  and 
stout  stick  into  the  bargain. 

The  path  they  took  led  through  some  green 
pastures,  then  a  pretty  bit  of  woodland,  up  an 
ascent,  from  whence  the  cottage  could  be  seen 
nestled  among  the  great  trees,  about  which  the 
rooks  circled  and  cawed,  while  the  autumn  sun 
lighted  the  quiet  nook  with  tranquil  beauty. 

Why  was  he  going  thither?    What  did  he 
propose  to  himself  by  this  step?    The  question 
struck  suddenly  upon  Castlemaine's  feverish  ex- . 
citement,  and   sent  a  chill  through  his  whole 
frame. 

"I  want  to  sit  down,"  he  said,  wearily;  "I 
am  tired." 

"  It's  a  goodish  pull  for  you,  considering,"  re 
turned  Jacob. 

His  dull  brain  had  been  pondering  over  the 


70 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


agitation  his  news  occasioned  the  young  man, 
and  for  once  he  had  arrived  at  a  conclusion  un 
aided  by  Patty.  It  was  Miss  Marian  the  gentle 
man  had  a  hankering  after,  and  not  the  Amer 
ican  miss,  as  people  had  said. 

"And  only  nat'ral,"  thought  Jacob,  "to  take  to 
what's  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  one  may  say ; 
for  who  knows  where  them  'Mericans  really  come 
from? — though  this  one  is  fair-spoken  enough, 
and  a  likely  sort  of  a  gal,  and  I  never  seed  her 
with  a  hatchet. " 

Jacob's  ideas  of  Americans  were  principally 
derived  from  a  picture-book  he  had  seen  in  his 
youthful  days,  representing  a  lusty  savage,  awful 
in  war-paint,  and  brandishing  a  tomahawk.  I 
have  met  others  of  his  countrymen  in  a  far  dif 
ferent  sphere  of  life  whose  impressions  of  their 
relatives  across  the  great  waters  were  not  much 
more  clear  or  correct. 

This  fancy  that  Mr.  Castlemaine  was  capti 
vated  by  Marian  softened  Jacob's  heart  com 
pletely.  He  revealed  another  secret — one  of  his 
own  this  time.  Cautiously  he  took  out  of  his 
breast-pocket  a  small  wicker  flask.  It  held  good 
sherry,  which  he  had  purloined  from  Patty's 
stores  for  his  private  delectation :  Jacob  believed 
his  health  feeble,  and  considered  himself  in  need 
of  more  stimulants  than  Patty  permitted. 

"Take  a  sup  of  this,"  he  said,  in  a  mysterious 
whisper.  "  Nobody  need  be  the  wiser ;"  and  he 
jerked  his  head  so  significantly  in  the  direction 
of  the  inn  that  Castlemaine  comprehended  he 
was  receiving  a  great  proof  of  confidence  and 
friendship. 

He  was  glad  to  rest  on  a  mossy  log  with  his 
back  against  a  tree,  staring  drearily  out  at  the 
cottage,  and  asking  himself  why  he  had  come, 
while  Jacob  struggled  to  light  a  pipe. 

"There's  the  'Merican  miss  a-walkin'  down 
the  path  now, "  he  exclaimed,  suddenly. 

Castlemaine  looked— saw  her  strolling  listless 
ly  along  toward  the  very  place  where  he  sat. 

"I  want  to  see  Miss  Devereux,"  he  said. 
"  Go  back  to  the  stile  and  wait  for  me,  Jacob." 

The  old  man  nodded  and  moved  away,  his 
mind  again  disturbed.  If  Patty  should  be  right, 
after  all !  Jacob  almost  wished  that  he  had  not 
treated  the  gentleman  to  sherry,  if  it  was  true 
he  must  lose  the  satisfaction  of  informing  Patty 
that  for  once  in  her  life  she  had  been  mistaken. 

Castlemaine  sat  still  and  waited  in  dreary  ex 
pectancy.  He  hoped  for  no  mercy — had  no 
thought  of  pleading  for  it.  Let  Miss  Devereux 
say  what  she  would  ;  he  wanted  news  of  Marian 
— wanted  to  hear  from  the  heiress's  own  lips  that 
she  had  revealed  his  treachery,  ere  he  slunk 
away  out  of  the  spot  forever. 

She  was  close  to  him  before  she  perceived 
his  presence.  She  stopped  short,  gave  him  one 
glance  of  contempt  and  aversion,  then  turned  to 
move  away. 

"Miss  Devereux,"  he  called. 


He  had  risen,  but  his  bodily  weakness  and  his 
mental  pain  mastered  him — he  was  obliged  to 
sit  down  again. 

She  paused,  then  moved  a  few  steps  nearer. 
In  spite  of  herself,  his  changed  appearance  soft 
ened  her  for  an  instant.  Indignant  at  her  own 
folly,  she  asked,  in  a  hard,  stern  voice, 

"What  are  you  here  for?  How  dare  you 
come  ?  Can  you  bo  so  utterly  insane  as  to  sup 
pose  the  truth  has  not  reached  me?  If  you  had 
been  killed  outright,  as  I  believed  for  a  moment, 
I  would  appeal  to  heaven  against  the  injustice 
of  your  spirit  haunting  me.  As  it  is,  if  you  cross 
my  path  again,  I  will  find  means  to  protect  my 
self  from  your  intrusion." 

He  sat  still,  his  head  bowed,  though  his  eyes 
met  hers — not  defiantly,  not  in  shame  even,  but 
with  a  helpless,  hopeless  expression,  such  as  his 
ghost  might  have  worn  had  it  indeed  come  back 
from  the  mystery  of  the  beyond. 

"I  expected  this,"  he  said;  "but  I  wanted 
to  see  you ;  I  wanted  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I 
knew  it  would  be  too  late,  though." 

"  Much  too  late,  even  if  you  were  capable  of 
it,"  she  replied,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

"How  is  Marian?"  he  asked. 

"What  right  have  you  to  inquire — " 

"Does  she  hate  and  despise  me  too?"  he  in 
terrupted.  "  Oh,  Miss  Devereux,  you  might  at 
least  have  left  me  a  pure  place  in  her  mind !  I 
did  not  mean  to  see  her.  I  could  not  bear  to 
read  the  truth  in  her  eyes  ;  but  I  just  heard  she 
was  ill.  I — " 

He  paused  and  turned  aside  his  head.  Miss 
Devereux  stood  watching  him  in  dumb  perplex 
ity. 

"I  meant  to  have  gone  away,"  he  continued, 
in  the  same  heavy,  monotonous  voice;  "but  to 
go  knowing  that  she  was  ill — that —  She  is  bet 
ter,  is  she  not — out  of  danger?" 

"Yes,  much  better,"  Miss  Devereux  answer 
ed,  still  regarding  him  in  the  same  wondering, 
puzzled  fashion. 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  it  happened," 
he  continued,  slowly,  "  but  there's  no  way.  I 
didn't  mean  to  be  despicable.  I  can't  tell  how 
it  came  about,  but  I  found  that  I  cared  for  her, 
only  I  told  myself  it  was  a  fancy — it  would  pass. 
I  asked  you  to  marry  me — I  meant  to  be  fair. 
I  thought  so  poorly  of  my  power  of  loving  that 
I  believed  I  should  be  a  decent  husband." 

"And  you  wanted  ease  and  wealth — yon  did 
not  care  what  Marian  suffered.  I  put  myself 
out  of  the  question,"  she  added. 

"Yes,  that  was  it — only  I  did  care  about  her. 
When  I  was  going  away  I  met  her  in  the  wood 
— it  all  came  out.  I  thought  I  intended  to  let 
you  know — I  do  think  I  did.  Then  came  that 
dreadful  fall.  I  heard  her  voice  ;  I  knew  I  was 
going  straight  down  to  hell,  because  I  had  flung 
away  the  last  chance  of  righting  my  soul." 

Helen  Devereux  could  not  listen  to  his  words 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


71 


without  a  thrill  of  womanly  sympathy  springing 
up  under  her  wrath. 

"The  chance  was  still  given,"  she  said. 

"I  went  straight  down  to  hell  just  the  same," 
he  answered.  "  Look  at  me,  groveling  there 
now  while  I  confess  my  shame  to  you.  Ah, 
Miss  Devereux,  you  might  have  been  merciful ; 
you  might  have  kept  her  from  me  without  telling 
the  whole  story  out." 

"  If  I  had,  what  would  you  do  now?"  she 
asked,  still  studying  him. 

"I  don't  know.  I  came  here  partly  to  tell 
you  the  truth — to  hear  your  sentence.  I  am  a 
worthless  dog,  but  it  does  seem  as  if  all  this 
must  have  changed  me.  I  really  think  with  her 
I  might  have  done  something  with  my  life — 
worked.  But  it  is  of  no  use  now ;  I  have  no  in 
ducement — " 

He  broke  off  and  rose,  walking  a  few  steps  up 
and  down,  then  came  back,  and  stood  near  her. 
All  the  while  her  eyes  had  never  left  his  face. 

"You  will  laugh,"  he  said,  "but  I  have  actu 
ally  been  thinking  that  if  I  had  her  I  would  take 
what  little  I  could  find  out  of  the  wreck  of  my 
property,  go  to  Australia,  turn  farmer  —  any 
thing.  In  time  I  might  pay  my  debts,  and  make 
a  decent  home.  I'm  more  fool  than  knave,  you 
see." 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  change  in  his  fortune, 
that  was  evident.  She  believed  in  him  now — 
believed  he  was  capable  of  amendment,  believed 
there  was  force  enough  in  his  character  for  re 
pentance  to  work  a  radical  cure  of  his  faults. 

She  sat  down  on  the  moss-covered  log,  and 
motioned  him  to  seat  himself  beside  her. 

"You  are  not  fit  to  stand,"  she  said;  "you 
had  no  business  to  stir  out." 

"I  may  as  well  go  away  now.  Good-bye, 
Miss  Devereux." 

"Have  the  goodness  to  sit  down,  as  I  bid 
you," she  ordered.  "You  have  no  right  to  go ; 
you  have  not  heard  my  sentence." 

He  obeyed  in  silence. 

"Talbot  Castlemaine,"  she  said,  "you  and  I 
did  a  wicked  thing— I  as  well  as  you,  though  I 
meant  to  be  honest.  Seeing  how  I  failed  might 
have  made  me  a  little  more  lenient  in  my  judg 
ment  of  you." 

"You  did  nothing  wrong;  you  were  frank 
and  truthful." 

"  To  a  certain  extent.  But  that's  not  to  the 
purpose.  You  went  off  and  got  your  neck  bro 
ken,  instead  of  coming  back  to  the  house  and 
saying  you  had  made  a  mistake — " 

"I  was  so  cowardly !" 

"There  I  can  do  the  vituperative  part.  You 
behaved  abominably.  No  wonder,  after  the  lives 
you  and  I  have  lived  !  We  have  grown  so  warp 
ed  that  we  don't  know  right  from  wrong.  If 
you  had  been  killed,  and  I  could  see  your  soul 
suffer  as  it  does,  I  should  say  it  was  enough — 
should  believe  you  would  be  helped  toward  the 


light.  You  are  here  yet,  and  I  still  say  it  is 
enough !  You  can  find  a  better  light  than  that 
you  and  I  have  hitherto  walked  by." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  he  answered,  sadly.  "Mari 
an  could  never  regard  my  evil  doing  in  this  way." 

"Dear  me,  that's  polite!  Who  told  you  she 
was  so  much  better  than  I,  if  you  please  ?"  Hel 
en  cried,  seeking  to  conceal  her  emotion  under  a 
show  of  playfulness. 

"She  is  better  than  any  body,  except  some 
saint  such  as  one  reads  about  in  old  legends. 
Do  you  know,  as  I  fell,  I  was  only  conscious  of 
thinking  how,  for  all  eternity,  I  must  stare  up 
through  the  darkness  and  see  her  face  in  the  sun 
light,  and  know  that  I  lost  her  and  heaven  by 
my  falsehood!" 

"  Let  me  remind  you  again  that  you  did  not 
go  to  the  very  unpleasant  place  you  talk  so  much 
about." 

"No,  I  found  it  here." 

"  And  you  would  really  have  courage,  if  Mari 
an  could  forgive,  to  take  up  a  new  life — to  work 
even — enter  a  profession  ?" 

"Indeed  I  would;  but  it  is  no  good  think 
ing  of  that.  From  the  moment  I  could  think — 
could  feel  certain  that  the  truth  must  have  come 
out — " 

"  Don't  I  saj'  I  have  been  hating  you  devout 
ly  !"  she  interrupted. 

"And  Marian?" 

"Oh,  Marian!  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  She 
knows  nothing  about  the  matter.  Come,  we  are 
neither  of  us  so  black  as  the  other  believed. 
Don't  look  at  me  like  that ;  I  shall  cry  in  a 
minute." 

She  was  so  touched  and  alarmed  by  the  varied 
emotions  in  his  countenance,  and  the  pallor  which 
increased  upon  it,  that  she  gave  way  to  a  burst 
of  hysterical  weeping,  which  helped  to  restore 
them  both  to  composure. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  house  now,"  she  said. 
"Marian  will  have  wakened.  Perhaps  to-mor 
row  you  can  see  her." 

"She  is  really  better — you  are  sure?" 

"To-morrow  she  is  to  sit  up  a  while.  Now  I 
can't  talk  any  more.  Go  back  to  the  hotel,  and 
just  ask  for  your  letters,  if  you  please.  What  a 
goose  you  are ! " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"You  will,  if  you  go  home  and  read  them. 
You  are  not  fit  to  walk  back  by  yourself." 

"Old  Koper  is  somewhere  about;  he  came 
with  me." 

Miss  Devereux  called  with  all  her  might,  and 
when  Jacob  appeared,  she  desired  him  to  take 
Mr.  Castlemaine  to  the  inn  without  delay. 

"  He'd  not  ha'  come  out  if  he'd  heerd  to  me, 
ma'am,"  replied  Jacob,  rather  gruffly.  The 
length  of  the  interview  had  convinced  him  that 
Tatty  was  right,  and  it  upset  Jacob's  temper  n 
little  to  have  lost  this  opportunity  of  glorying 
over  her. 


72 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


Castlemaine  tried  to  utter  a  few  whispered 
words  of  gratitude — to  frame  a  message  for  Mar 
ian.  This  last  effort  would  have  proved  some 
what  awkward  to  another  man  under  the  circum 
stances  ;  but  it  was  quite  like  Castlemaine  to  find 
no  difficulty,  and  Miss  Devereux  was  too  much 
in  earnest  to  notice  this  little  evidence  of  utter 
selfishness.  She  hurried  back  to  the  house  as 
light-hearted  as  if  she  had  stepped  suddenly  into 
another  world,  unable  to  be  thankful  enough  that 
she  had  kept  silence  to  Marian. 

Castlemaine  walked  slowly  homeward,  leaning 
on  Jacob's  arm.  After  his  remorse  and  subse 
quent  elation,  there  had  come  a  certain  despond 
ency — a  feeling  as  if  a  cold  wind  had  suddenly 
blown  over  his  good  resolves.  He  had  righted 
matters ;  he  could  have  Marian's  love.  He 
longed  for  her,  burned  to  hold  her  to  his  heart, 
to  warm  her  innocent  mouth  with  such  passion 
ate  kisses  as  she  had  never  dreamed  of;  but — 

The  exigencies  of  his  position  came  back — a 
cattle  farm  out  in  the  heart  of  Australia  did  not 
look  a  smiling  future.  Ah,  well !  it  was  no  use 
to  think  now.  Perhaps  he  could  arrange  his 
debts ;  perhaps,  through  family  influence,  se 
cure  a  diplomatic  appointment  somewhere ;  they 
should  see.  He  forgot  these  cares  in  the  picture 
he  drew  of  Marian's  face,  and  then  they  were  at 
the  inn. 

Seeing  Mrs.  Ecper  reminded  him  of  Miss  Dev- 
ereux's  words. 

•'Will  you  give  me  my  letters,  please?"  he 
said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  not  thinking  of 
them  this  morning.  The  doctor  had  said  you 
wasn't  to  have  them  till  you  was  better,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Roper,  as  she  produced  the  package, 
afraid  to  refuse  his  command. 

She  thought  Jacob  seemed  enjoying  her  slight 
discomfiture,  and  she  marched  sternly  up  to  him 
as  he  stood  peering  in  at  the  door-way. 

"I  know  where  my  sherry  wine  went  to," 
whispered  she.  "  It's  usually  the  cat,  according 
to  you,  that  takes  things ;  but  the  cat  don't  smell 
of  sherry,  and  you  do." 

Jacob  retreated,  and  Mrs.  Roper  immured  her 
self  in  the  kitchen,  to  prepare  dinner  for  her 
guest. 

Castlemaine  walked  on  into  the  parlor,  still  so 
busy  with  his  reflections  he  had  not  noticed  that 
one  of  the  missives  he  held  was  a  telegram. 
Even  when  he  did  perceive  it,  he  tore  open  the 
envelope  carelessly,  thinking  only  that  it  was  a 
message  from  some  tiresome  people  who  had 
been  teasing  him  to  come  to  their  place  in  the 
North. 

He  read,  and  sat  for  many  moments  positively 
confused  and  stunned.  Then  he  opened  the  law 
yer's  letter.  By  the  time  he  had  mastered  its 
contents  he  comprehended  the  change  which  had 
come  into  his  life.  The  impossible  was  realized. 
Still  a  third-  letter  awaited  him,  almost  as  unex 


pected  as  the  news  that  the  baronetcy  had  fallen 
to  his  share.  The  relative  whom  he  had  gone 
on  the  Continent  to  visit  was  in  London,  and  de 
sired  to  see  him.  The  old  man  was  very  ill,  but 
he  wrote  himself,  requesting  Talbot's  presence 
without  delay.  Glancing  again  at  the  envelope, 
he  saw  it  was  directed  to  Sir  Talbot  Castlemaine, 
and  understood  that  in  the  eyes  of  his  mother's 
cousin  he  was  a  very  different  personage  from 
the  ruined  scape-grace  who  had  vainly  pleaded 
for  aid  a  few  weeks  previous. 

He  must  go  up  to  town  in  any  case.  He 
would  go  in  the  morning.  He  quite  forgot  his 
aches  and  pains  and  his  bruised  arm.  Then  he 
recollected  Marian  ;  he  could  not  be  too  glad  of 
what  had  happened  where  she  was  concerned. 
In  his  present  position  a  man  ought  to  marry;  it 
was  time  to  have  done  with  follies.  A  whole 
life  was  a  long  time  to  be  tied  to  one  woman,  but 
Marian  was  so  sweet  and  yielding  that  the  chains 
would  sit  lightly.  .Besides,  she  was  a  new  expe 
rience  ;  he  should  positively  find  a  fresh  sensa 
tion  in  teaching  hej.'  what  love  really  meant. 

He  went  to  the  cottage  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  and  found  Miss  Devereux  walking  to 
and  fro  on  the  veranda.  She  blamed  his  impru 
dence,  but  was  cordial  as  of  old,  and  greeted  him 
merrily  by  his  new  title. 

Marian  had  insisted  upon  sitting  up,  and  she 
was  so  well  that  Miss  Devereux  had  given  way. 
So  after  taking  Castlemaine  in  to  receive  the  old 
lady's  congratulations,  and  be  tearfully  granted 
the  guardianship  of  her  treasure,  Miss  Devereux 
went  away  to  prepare  her  friend. 

Presently  she  returned,  and  conducted  Castle 
maine  upstairs,  opened  the  door  softly,  and  said, 
"Just  twenty  minutes,  good  people; 'the 
wicked  fairy  is  not  to  be  coaxed  out  of  a  second 
more." 

Castlemaine  pushed  by  her  into  the  room,  and 
in  another  instant  Marian  lay  pillowed  in  his 
arms,  wondering  that  she  did  not  die  from  sheer 
excess  of  happiness. 

Would  the  time  ever  come  when  she  must 
marvel  bitterly  why  Heaven  could  not  have  or 
dered  it  so  ?  More  than  one  weary  soul  has 
asked  that  question,  looking  back  through  a 
horrible  night  to  a  bliss  as  unreasoning  as  hers. 
Poor  Marian ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HOW   THE    DREAM    ENDED. 

THE  weeks  had  got  by  -.until  winter  was  fair 
ly  established  in  republican  Paris,  and  a  colder, 
drearier  season  than  that  month  of  December, 
1871,  could  not  well  have  been  found  short  of 
St.  Petersburg.  More  snow  fell  during  the  first 
days  than  usually  suffices  the  capital  for  a  whole 
winter;  and  though  there  was  a  little  set  of 
people,  mostly  foreigners,  who  brought  out  their 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


78 


sledges  and  tried  to  revive  something  of  the  gay- 
ety  of  the  old  days,  it  was  a  poor  attempt,  dis 
heartening  indeed  to  any  body  who  remembered 
the  gorgeous  later  years  of  the  empire. 

But  there  was  no  trace  of  sadness  or  gloom  in 
the  pretty  salons  where  Fanny  St.  Simon  held 
sway;  decidedly  a  glorious  summer  of  content 
reigned  at  this  period  in  her  breast,  and  was  en 
joyed  by  her  uncle  likewise.  Not  that  all  their 
hopes  were  realities  yet,  but  enough  so  that  to 
their  visionary  minds  the  rest  seemed  equally 
sure  of  fruition. 

The  Nevada  silver  mines  were  actually  in 
operation ;  the  first  yields  had  proved  enormous, 
and  the  stock  sold  like  wild-fire  in  Paris,  Lon 
don,  and  New  York. 

Though  he  still  preserved  an  appearance  of 
great  circumspection,  Fanny  felt  sure  that  St. 
Simon  was  already  losing  his  head  a  little ;  but 
she  was  too  dizzy  with  her  own  plans  to  remon 
strate,  even  if  remonstrance  would  have  been  of 
any  avail. 

They  had  left  the  apartments  in  the  Avenue 
Friedland,  and  were  established  in  a  private  ho 
tel  ;  a  luxurious  nest  that  had  belonged  to  some 
famous  Bonapartist,  for  whom  Paris  was  not 
likely  to  prove  a  quiet  abiding-place  at  present. 
Perhaps  this  new  train  of  expense  by  itself  might 
not  have  been  dangerous.  St.  Simon  said  it  was 
ritally  important  they  should  show  the  world 
that  the  harvest  had  actually  begun ;  but  there 
were  other  outlays. 

Fanny  always  managed  to  know  every  thing, 
and  she  knew  that  in  a  rather  less  exclusive 
quartier  there  was  another  hotel,  wherein  dwelt 

Madame  M ,  enshrined  there  lately;  and 

Fanny,  imitating  St.  Simon's  agreeable  habits, 
had  taken  bird's-eye  peeps  of  certain  bills  and 
letters  which  made  the  matter  plain.  But  this 
and  other  weaknesses,  such  as  the  taste  for  gam 
bling  (too  long  a  master -passion  to  be  kept  in 
abeyance),  were  secrets  from  the  circle  in  which 
they  lived.  St.  Simon  was  sane  enough  to  keep 
up  his  new  role  of  respectability,  and  still  appear 
ed  occasionally  by  his  niece's  side  in  the  Rue 
Bayard  chapel,  where  gorgeously  attired  crowds 
gossiped  pleasantly  between  the  solemn  responses 
in  which  they  expressed  such  deep  regret  for  be 
ing  "miserable  sinners." 

Gregory  Alleyne's  name  had  accomplished  all 
St.  Simon  desired  —  brought  to  book  the  half- 
dozen  capitalists  who  knew  Alleyne  personally, 
and  were  needed  to  set  the  ball  rolling.  Of 
course,  any  active  participation  in  the  business 
matters  on  that  gentleman's  part  must  be  de 
ferred  until  his  return  to  America;  but  the  list 
of  directors  in  New  York  was  a  guarantee  that 
every  thing  would  be  openly  and  honorably  man 
aged. 

The  two  men  were  on  the  most  friendly  terms, 
and  Alleyne  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house. 
When  he  crossed  the  ocean,  he  meant  to  remain 


only  a  short  time  in  Paris,  yet  winter  had  come, 
and  he  still  lingered.  He  began  to  understand 
why ;  and  as  he  liked  to  treat  himself  with  the 
honesty  which  was  his  rule  where  others  were 
concerned,  he  studied  his  own  motives  closely. 

Should  he  ask  Fanny  St.  Simon  to  become  his 
wife?  Love  —  as  he  had  once  interpreted  the 
name — was  out  of  the  question,  but  life  looked 
cold  and  solitary ;  he  yearned  for  companionship 
and  affection,  proud  and  self-contained  as  he 
appeared.  This  woman  had  been  ill  regulated, 
ill  brought  up,  but  she  possessed  great  capabili 
ties,  and  was  weary  of  the  empty,  frivolous  ex- 
istence  she  led.  He  would  have  hesitated  to 
offer  the  battered  remnants  of  his  heart  to  a  girl 
just  beginning  youth ;  but  this  woman,  he  was 
certain  had  passed  through  troubled  waters,  and 
perhaps  could  appreciate  and  be  ready  to  accept 
the  esteem  and  calm  affection  he  had  to  offer. 

Skillfully  enough  Fanny  St.  Simon  played  her 
part,  growing  in  earnest  about  it  too ;  for  though 
as  the  weeks  went  on  the  hope  in  her  soul  waxed 
brighter,  there  was  a  satisfaction  in  trying  to  win 
this  man.  She  would  like,  before  claiming  her 
happiness,  to  show  him  to  Miss  Devereux,  oblivi 
ous  of  the  old  dream  and  the  old  pain. 

It  was  hard  to  wait  for  the  attainment  of  her 
other  aims,  but  the  end  was  near  now.  A  little 
while,  and  she  could  summon  Castlemaine;  his 
accession  to  dignity  made  her  task  easier.  The 
fortune  which  came  with  his  title  was  not  a  large 
one,  but  the  dot  she  could  add  to  it  would  enable 
him  to  listen  to  his  heart — for  he  loved  her,  she 
never  doubted  that ;  worldly,  capricious,  blasd  as 
he  was,  he  loved  her. 

Indeed,  buoyed  up  by  her  hope,  this  season 
was  one  of  the  pleasantest  in  Fanny's  recollec 
tion,  always  excepting  the  brief  weeks  which  seem 
ed  so  completely  apart  from  her  real  existence 
that  she  could  not  count  them  as  an  actual  part 
of  her  ordinary  life.  When  she  looked  back  on 
those  days  spent  with  Castlemaine  in  Italy,  it 
always  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  for  a  time 
been  lifted  out  of  this  dull  sphere  into  a  new 
world,  dazzled  for  a  while  by  the  glorious  sun 
shine,  then  flung  ruthlessly  back  upon  the  com 
mon  earth. 

Life  was  fuller  of  interest  than  it  had  been  for 
years.  Eager  as  she  was,  she  could  wait  almost 
patiently  for  the  fulfillment  of  her  hope.  Never 
during  an  instant,  by  night  or  day,  did  that  aim 
and  dream  lose  possession  of  her  mind ;  but  in 
stead  of  rendering  the  present  suspense  irksome, 
the  constant  companionship  of  her  contemplated 
bliss  helped  her  to  enjoy  the  new  luxury  and  re 
pose.  The  veriest  trifles  attracted  her;  her  ge 
niality  and  merry  spirits  increased  always.  It 
was  amusing  to  watch  this  serious  Gregory  Al 
leyne  in  his  earnest  study  of  what  he  believed 
her  character ;  how  Fanny  laughed  at  the  word 
as  she  told  herself  that  mystery  was  not  one,  but 
legion. 


74 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


It  interested  her  to  observe  Roland  Spencer,  j      "Why,  I  think  you  must  be  in  love  with  me," 
to  take  the  boy's  heart  in  her  hand,  and  play    she  said, 
with  it  as  carelessly  as  in  her  childish  days  she 


used  to  tear  the  petals  of  her  roses  to  discover 
where  the  perfume  was  hidden.  Still,  to  do  her 
justice,  she  did  not  mean  in  this  instance  to  be 
cruel.  She  persisted  in  her  resolution  of  doing 
no  harm,  and  was  fonder  of  him,  in  a  superior, 
pitying  fashion,  than  she  had  ever  been  of  any 
human  creature.  His  youth  and  enthusiasm 
were  delightful  to  her.  She  loved  to  hear  his 


"  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  you  were  a  little 
girl ;  but  you  always  knew  that." 

"This  dear  old  Besson!"  returned  Fanny. 
"Why,  most  men  would  have  tried  to  buy  me 
with  the  money,  instead  of  being  willing  to  go 
out  of  the  world  to  let  me  enjoy  it." 

"You  can't  think  I  would  commit  such  a 
sin,"  he  said,  in  a  pained  voice.  "I  never 
thought  of  that — I  know  it  could  not  be !  I  am 


aspirations  and  his  visions  ;  it  was  like  reading  ;  content  to  love  you  ;  it  is  happiness  enough  for 
a  wonderfully  original  romance,  or  conning  the    an  old  crooked  monster  like  me." 
measures  of  a  poem  which  bore  the  stamp  of  ah* 
solute  genius.    Why,  even  Besson's  meek  adora 
tion  touched  her  in  these  days,  and  she  was  very 
good  to  the  old  man.     His  idolatry  was  so  pa 
tient  and  profound  that  she  liked  to  probe  its 


depths,  and  wonder  over  it  in  a  kindly  way  as 
over  some  lusus  naturae,  not  hideous  in  spite  of 
its  grotesqueness. 

Poor  Besson,  whose  face  even  in  his  youthful 
days  probably  resembled  a  comic  mask  more 
than  any  thing  else,  and  whose  frame  was  ap 
parently  composed  of  parts  belonging  to  several 
men  thrown  together  at  random — she  was  very 
kind  to  him.  Some  lowly  worshiper  of  Diana 
of  Ephesus  in  her  popular  days  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  aspiring  to  the  goddess's  love, 
as  Besson  to  gain  more  than  compassionate 


"  You  look  on  me  as  your  child — " 

"Yes,  that  too;  but  more — I  love  you  in  all 
ways.  Sometimes  I  think  in  the  next  world  I 
shall  be  young  and  straight  and  handsome.  Do 
you  know,  thinking  that  has  made  me  believe 
there  is  something  hereafter. " 

"Then  I  have  done  a  little  good  in  bringing 
you  out  of  your  heathenish  French  materialism," 
said  Fanny.  "  But,  after  all,  you  know  there 
are  two  sides  to  the  next  world  doctrine — there's 
a  very  unpleasant  place  talked  about,  as  well  as 
a  good  one." 

"I'd  go  there  if  it  could  insure  you  the  para 
dise,"  Besson  said,  as  quietly  as  if  he  were  speak 
ing  of  a  journey  to  Italy.  "  I'm  sure  you  would 
come  now  and  then  and  smile  at  me  over  the 
great  gulf;  that  would  be  bliss  enough  for  me." 


sweetness  from  Fanny ;  yet  many  a  woman  fa 
mous  for  her  triumphs  has  gone  through  life  ;  Besson. 
without  ever  winning  a  tithe  of  such  entire  un-   wife." 
selfish  devotion  as  he  lavished  upon  her. 


"But  you  must  have  loved  somebody  else, 
You  were  young  once  —  you  had   a 


She  intended  to  turn  his  plans  for  her  to  good 
account,  but  she  would  have  been  just  as  kind 
had  she  seen  no  probability  of  his  ever  having  a 
sou  to  give  her ;  it  was  one  of  the  peculiarities 
of  her  complex  character.  Since  he  had  money, 
of  course  she  would  take  it.  The  chance  must 
have  come  in  his  old  age,  in  order  that  he  might 


"I  never  was  young,"  sighed  Besson  ;  "that 
is  another  reason  why  I  try  to  believe  in  eter 
nity  ;  perhaps  I  shall  find  my  youth  there.  I 
was  bom  old,  and  nobody  wanted  me  to  come 
into  the  world." 

"  But  you  had  money  ?" 

"Yes;  and  my  parents  hated  me  because  it 
was  mine  instead  of  belonging  to  their  handsome 


be  of  use  to  her ;  she  believed  this  as  firmly  as   children ;  but  they  all  died — there  was  only  I 
Besson  did  himself.  j  who  had  to  live." 

"And  your  wife — didn't  you  love  your  wife, 
Besson  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 
'  I  married  her  because  she  was  very  unhap- 


He  possessed  more  of  her  confidence  than  any 
body  else ;  it  was  a  relief  to  unburden  her  mind, 
even  if  vaguely  done.  But  the  day  came  when 
Besson  betrayed  an  intimate  knowledge  of  her 

projects    and   feelings    which    astonished    her,    py,  and  it  was  the  only  way  to  protect  her." 
though  she  was  not  troubled.     They  had  been  j      "  But  she  was  fond  of  you  and  grateful?" 
talking  of  the  mine  and  its  success,  and  he  spoke  !      "  She  spent  my  money  and  hated  me !     When 
again  of  his  happiness  in  the  thought  of  having  '•  I  would  not  let  her  quite  ruin  me,  on  account  of 
a  fortune  to  leave  her.  |  the  boy,  she  ran  away,"  said  Besson.     "Then 


"A  fortune  for  you  to  live  and  enjoy,  I  hope," 
she  said. 

"Yes;  I  do  not  want  to  die  quite  yet," he  an 
swered.  "But  I  must  not  keep  you  from  pos 
sessing  what  is  yours." 

"Then  if  some  time  I  was  to  say,  'My  good 
Besson,  you  are  in  the  way ;  you  must  take  a 
dose  of  poison,  and  let  me  have  my  money,'  you 
would  do  it,  I  suppose,"  said  she,  laughing. 

"Yes,  I  would," he  replied,  simply. 


the  boy  grew  up,  and  he  treated  me  worse  than 
she  did,  and  spent  every  thing — except  those 
lands,  which  he  could  not  get  rid  of,  because 
nobody  would  buy  them.  You  are  the  only  per 
son  who  has  ever  been  good  to  me. " 

He  told  his  little  story  quietly,  with  no  French 
gestures  or  excitement ;  and  his  face  looked 
more  like  a  caricature  than  ever,  seamed  into 
wrinkles,  with  two  tears  rolling  slowly  down  his 
cheeks. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


75 


"  I  haven't  been  happy  either,  Besson,"  Fanny 
said,  impulsive  enough  to  be  touched  by  the  pite 
ous  simplicity  of  his  narrative,  though  she  laugh 
ed  at  the  oddity  of  his  countenance  while  her 
eyes  were  moist. 

"I  know  that,"  he  said;  "I  know  every 
tiling  about  you.  It  was  that  handsome  En 
glishman — you  hope  to  marry  him  yet.  He  is 
a  bad  man,  I  am  afraid ;  but  I  can't  hate  him, 
because  he  is  your  choice." 

"Why,  Besson !  you're  a  sorcerer ! "  she  cried, 
in  alarm. 

"  Don't  be  troubled  because  I  know.  I  can't 
tell  how  it  is,  but  I  do,"  said  Besson.  "I'm 
afraid  you  will  not  be  happy,  but  you  must  have 
your  way.  He  is  like  a  young  god,  the  English 
man.  Well,  it  seems  sure  we  shall  have  the 
money ;  you  can  tell  him  he  is  to  add  my  share 
to  yours." 

He  wiped  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  blew  his 
nose  sonorously. 

"What  am  I  to  do  to  thank  you,  Besson?" 
she  asked. 

"Only  to  be  happy,  and  let  the  old  man  see 
it." 

"I'll  tell  you,  dear;  you  shall  live  with  me. 
You  like  Italy  —  we'll  go  there;  we'll  have  a 
palace  at  Florence,  and  a  villa  at  Sorrento,  and 
we'll  all  live  a  hundred  thousand  years.  Do  you 
like  that?" 

"You  mean  it — you  will  be  sure  to  let  me 
go?" 

"Yes;"  and  she  put  her  hand  in  his  for  an 
instant.  He  did  not  offer  to  touch  it,  but  after 
ward  he  kissed  the  spot  on  his  wrinkled  palm 
where  her  fingers  had  lain. 

"I'm  seventy-two,"  he  muttered,  "seventy- 
two  !  It  will  be  a  long  while  to  wait,  if  the 
priests'  stories  are  true.  May  be  they'll  let  me 
sleep  quietly  till  she  comes." 

"You  don't  find  it  easy  to  give  up  your  pagan 
notions  of  turning  to  dust  and  ashes,  and  that 
being  the  end,"  said  Fanny. 

"Not  always ;  I  began  so  late.  Do  you  ever 
read  that  book  they  call  the  Bible,  Fanny  ?" 

"Not  often,  I'm  afraid,"  she  answered ;  "  but 
the  Tortoise  has  one.  They  used  to  make  me 
say  my  prayers,  though,  when  I  was  a  little  girl 
in  the  convent,  but  I  didn't  like  it." 

"Well,"  said  Besson,  "I  have  been  reading 
your  English  Bible.  If  any  part  of  it  is  true,  all 
that  about  the  Christ  must  be,  and  he  will  al 
ways  feel  sorry  for  us — always." 

"Do  come  back  to  this  world,"  said  Fanny, 
actually  growing  nervous.  "I  hate  to  think 
about  death." 

"Because  you  are  young,"  he  sighed;  "but 
sometime  you  will  be  seventy-two,  as  well  as  me, 
Fanny." 

"  Don't  suggest  such  unpleasant  possibilities. 
I'd  rather  talk  of  Italy." 

From  this  time  Fanny  found  a  new  rest  in 


poor  old  Besson's  society,  and  she  was  as  frank 
and  open  with  him  as  her  nature  would  permit. 
When  waiting  grew  difficult,  and  the  days  seemed 
to  stand  still,  she  could  send  for  him  and  plan 
for  the  future,  while  his  positive  assurances  that 
every  thing  was  going  well  restored  her  courage. 

So  the  weeks  had  got  by  to  December,  as  I 
said,  and  Fanny  felt  that  her  destiny  was  almost 
in  her  own  hands.  An  adventurous  English 
woman,  driven  frantic  by  the  excitement  in  re 
gard  to  the  Nevada  Company,  could  not  rest  till 
she  had  invested  a  portion  of  her  funds  therein. 
Through  Besson's  aid,  Fanny  was  able  to  do  a 
little  business  on  her  own  account  without  St. 
Simon's  knowledge.  There  were  no  shares  to 
be  had,  Besson  informed  the  rash  dame.  He 
was  truthful  enough  in  the  ordinary  walks  of 
life,  but  he  had  no  scruple  in  uttering  a  false 
hood  when  Fanny  bade  him ;  indeed,  if  she  had 
ordered  him  to  commit  a  murder  he  would  have 
attempted  it  with  just  as  little  hesitation. 

Fanny's  invention  was  at  no  loss  for  artifices, 
and  Besson  had  his  story  prepared  to  recite.  He 
could  find  ten  thousand  pounds  of  stock  for  the 
bold  lady,  but  she  must  keep  the  secret  for  the 
present.  The  shares  belonged  to  Mr.  St.  Si 
mon's  niece.  The  young  lady  had  debts  which 
she  dared  not  allow  to  come  to  her  uncle's  knowl 
edge,  and  under  that  pressure  she  was  willing  to 
dispose  of  a  sufficient  amount  to  cover  her  em 
barrassments  —  at  a  premium ;  and  very  lucky 
the  Englishwoman  thought  herself. 

Fanny  had  actually  ten  thousand  pounds  in 
her  possession — no  wonder  that  she  felt  the  fu 
ture  was  close  at  hand.  If  this  excitement  in 
regard  to  the  shares  continued,  she  would  be 
able,  through  Besson's  help,  to  realize  a  large 
sum  before  St.  Simon  had  the  slightest  inkling 
of  her  plans. 

She  went  nearly  mad  with  joy  in  her  room 
that  night  as  the  check  lay  on  the  table  before 
her.  She  could  wait  no  longer ;  she  must  write 
to  Castlemaine.  He  was  sanguine  enough  to  be 
attracted  by  the  prospect,  now  that  this  first  in 
stallment  was  actually  in  her  hands. 

When  morning  came,  she  decided  to  wait  a 
while  before  sending  her  letter.  She  knew  that 
Castlemaine  had  been  for  some  time  at  his  coun 
try-seat,  afterward  in  London,  living  in  complete 
retirement.  As  he  was  no  longer  near  Miss 
Devereux,  no  immediate  danger  need  be  feared. 
Ah,  perhaps  he  was  arranging  his  debts — think 
ing  of  her  as  he  did  so — endeavoring  to  see  if 
there  would  be  fortune  enough  remaining  to  come 
and  claim  her — for  he  loved  her — he  did  love 
her!  No  other  woman  had  ever  taken,  or  ever 
could  take,  her  place.  Well  as  she  knew  his  ca- 
priciousness,  his  infirmity  of  purpose,  she  be 
lieved  this. 

She  scarcely  recognized  her  own  face  as  she 
saw  it  in  the  glass  this  morning,  it  was  so  re 
juvenated  and  transfigured  by  the  entrancing 


"ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


76 

visions  of  her  sleepless  night.     St.  Simon  saw 
her,  and  was  positively  dumfounded. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  to  your 
self?"  he  asked.  "You're  no  better  dressed 
than  usual,  but  you  are  positively  beautiful! 
That  color  is  not  from  violets,  either.  Why, 
Fan,  you  are  splendid !" 

"I  always  told  you  I  should  come  out  won 
derfully  under  favorable  circumstances,"  returned 
she,  laughing  so  gayly  that  he  marveled  still 
more  at  the  change  in  her,  and,  for  once  in  his 
life,  was  too  much  puzzled  to  arrive  at  any  satis 
factory  conclusion. 

"Are  you  planning  some  outvageous  folly?" 
he  asked,  suddenly. 

"  My  dear  St.  Simon,  I  am  just  resting  in  per 
fect  content ;  I  do  not  even  look  forward  a  day. 
Perhaps  you  will  not  believe  me,  but  I  should 
think  you  would  have  the  same  feeling  yourself. 
This  is  our  gala  season,  and  I  mean  to  enjoy  it 
to  the  utmost,  no  matter  what  comes  after." 

"  That's  right ;  every  thing  is  secure  enough, 
too.  I  did  not  see  Alleyne  yesterday." 

"He  was  here,  though.  He  took  T.  and  my 
self  out  in  his  sledge.  No  chance  to-day — worse 
luck — for  it  rained  in  the  night." 

"And  you  are  making  no  mistakes  ?  You 
have  not  let  any  caprice  come  between  you  and 
common  sense?" 

"Look  at  me,"  she  said,  laughing  again. 
"My  dear  St.  Simon,  we  are  very  elegant  and 
proper  in  these  days,  but  I  can  only  express  my 
sentiments  by  a  bit  of  Colonel  Judd's  Western 
eloquence,  '  Take  care  of  your  own  end  of  the 
schooner.'  " 

He  laughed  too,  and  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"I  must  be  off,"  he  said.  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?" 

"Eat  my  breakfast.  Then  I  must  take  the 
carriage  and  T.,  and  drive  to  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
Don't  forget  you  have  several  men  at  dinner, 
and  it  is  our  reception  night.  I  have  made  a 
point  of  inviting  every  body,  and  I  mean  to 
dance." 

A  little  later  Roland  Spencer  caught  sight  of 
her  as  the  clarence  rolled  down  the  Champs 
Elysees.  She  saw  him  too,  and,  being  in  a  frame 
of  mind  to  make  every  body  happy,  stopped  the 
carriage,  and  begged  his  company. 

"  We  are  only  going  to  shops,  to  be  sure,"  she 
said;  "but  T.  is  sleepy,  and  I  want  to  talk  or 
be  talked  to." 

Her  appearance  struck  Roland  even  more  for 
cibly  than  it  had  done  St.  Simon  ;  his  head  fair 
ly  turned  under  the  light  in  her  eyes  and  the 
magic  of  her  smiles.  He  spent  a  morning  in 
the  seventh  heaven  of  delight,  and  went  to  his 
lodgings  to  dream  of  her  until  the  night  should 
again  bring  him  the  bliss  of  her  presence. 

The  whole  day  was  just  as  bewildering  and 
unreal  to  Fanny.  She  could  not  be  kind  enough 
to  every  body  about  her ;  she  would  have  lavish 


ed  the  choicest  gifts  of  fortune  on  the  whole 
world,  if  such  had  been  within  her  reach.  Aft 
er  dressing  for  dinner  she  went  into  the  Tor 
toise's  room,  and  found  that  animal  so  unusually 
miserable  under  the  hands  of  her  maid,  that  she 
put  the  Frenchwoman  aside  and  set  to  work 
herself. 

"Oh  dear!"  said  the  suffering  creature,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  when  the  robing  operation  was 
nearly  finished,  "you've  made  me  look  like 
somebody  else.  I  don't  feel  a  single  pin,  and  I 
really  believe  my  hair  will  stay  up  all  the  even 
ing." 

"Not  if  you  shake  your  head  like  that,"  said 
Fanny.  "Just  let  me  pin  your  coiffure  with 
these  two  diamond  stars ; — why,  you  are  gor 
geous,  my  good  old  T.  !" 

"  I  keep  these  new  diamonds  hid  in  my  shoe 
every  night,"  whispered  the  Tortoise.  "St.  Si 
mon  won't  find  them  there.  I  dreamed  he  came 
hunting  for  them,  and  pinched  me  dreadfully  be 
cause  I  wouldn't  tell  where  they  were." 

"He  does  not  want  them.  I  have  told  you 
over  and  over,  T.,  that  we  have  really  lots  of 
money  this  time." 

"Yes;  but  we've  thought  that  so  often. 
Don't  you  tell  about  my  shoe— I  keep  it  under 
my  pillow." 

"I'll  not  tell,  T.  There,  you  are  dressed. 
Now  come  into  the  salon,  and  keep  quiet — so 
that  you  will  not  fall  to  bits." 

"Yes,  dear —  Oh,  where's  my  pocket-hand 
kerchief?  Just  turn  your  head  a  minute,  Fan 
ny — I  want  to  sneeze." 

She  looked  wonderfully  well  in  her  silvery 
satin  and  delicate  lace,  and  absolutely  got  from 
one  room  to  the  other  without  losing  any  portion 
of  her  draperies.  St.  Simon  considerately  paid 
little  attention  to  her;  she  was  never  so  much 
disturbed  by  any  thing  as  his  flatteries. 

"I  always  feel  as  if  he  meant  me  a  mischief," 
she  confided  to  Fanny. 

Sitting  near  the  girl  at  table,  Alleyne  mar 
veled,  as  others  had  done  during  the  day,  at  her 
new  beauty  and  brilliant  spirits.  Her  soft,  gold- 
colored  draperies  were  singularly  becoming,  and 
her  face  was  so  softened  and  beautified  that  sun 
dry  hard  lines  and  expressions  which  had  some 
times  displeased  his  taste  were  not  visible  now. 
She  looked  like  one's  ideal  of  some  gorgeous 
Eastern  queen  —  full  of  warm,  sensuous  life, 
though  that  way  of  putting  it  would  have  been 
displeasing  to  Alleyne's  fastidiousness,  and  does 
not  give  the  idea  I  wish  to  convey,  only,  as  I  can 
invent  no  other  simile,  this  must  stand. 

While  she  talked  and  laughed,  Fanny  was 
thinking  of  him  too.  He  was  a  very  different 
man  from  what  she  had  fancied.  She  was  in  a 
mood  to  like  him — to  sympathize  with  his  lost 
hopes  —  even  to  forgive  her  old  enemy.  Why 
should  he  not  have  his  happiness  ?  Fanny  was 
willing  that  even  Helen  Devereux  should  be  al- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


77 


lowed  to  share  in  the  general  amnesty  she  felt 
inclined  to  pronounce.  She  would  see.  In  com 
mencing  her  new  life  she  should  be  glad  to  have 
no  cloud  from  the  old,  misspent  existence  over 
shadow  it.  Why  should  she  not  give  those  two 
their  happiness  ? 

This  thought  was  in  her  mind  as  she  rose  from 
the  table.  The  idea  made  her  kinder  and  gen 
tler  to  Alleyne  ;  and  it  was  not  astonishing  that, 
though  free  from  puerile  masculine  vanity,  he 
should  believe,  if  he  decided  to  ask  Fanny  St. 
Simon  to  be  his  wife,  she  could  come  to  him 
at  least  content,  and  ready  to  help  render  their 
united  future  something  better  than  the  stormy 
night  of  the  past. 

The  first  arrivals  interrupted  their  conversa 
tion.  As  Fanny  chanced  to  be  standing  near 
the  door,  a  servant  whispered  to  her  that  Mon 
sieur  Besson  desired  to  speak  with  her  at  once. 
The  old  man  never  appeared  at  any  of  their  fes 
tivities  ;  Fanny  wondered  what  could  induce 
him  to  select  so  inopportune  a  moment.  No 
premonition  of  evil  struck  her  as  she  went  out. 
It  was  more  good  news  ;  happiness,  like  trouble, 
never  came  singly.  Some  other  chance  had 
opened  —  some  new  aspirant  eager  to  hold  the 
magic  stocks  had  arisen,  and  Besson,  in  his  kind 
ness,  wanted  her  to  receive  the  tidings  without 
delay. 

He  was  waiting  for  her  in  a  little  morning 
room  she  had  appropriated  to  herself  in  the  rez- 
de-chaussee.  She  went  'down  by  a  back  stair 
case  to  avoid  meeting  any  guests  who  might 
chance  to  arrive.  She  was  humming  an  air  as 
she  entered  the  room  —  a  Venetian  barcarolle 
Castlemaine  used  to  sing  away  off  in  those  gold 
en  Italian  days  ;  a  song  that  had  of  late  often 
sprung  involuntarily  to  her  lips  after  a  dreary 
season,  during  which  a  single  echo  of  it  had  been 
enough  to  drive  her  almost  mad. 

She  caught  sight  of  herself  in  a  mirror  as  she 
entered  the  room.  Long  afterward  she  was 
haunted  by  that  passing  vision,  radiant  with  a 
positive  beauty  which  she  had  never  before  pos 
sessed,  the  like  of  which  never  came  again,  be 
cause  in  this  moment  Fanny  St.  Simon  saw  her 
face  transfigured  by  happiness  for  the  last  time. 

The  side  -  lights  of  the  mirror  were  the  only 
ones  burning  ;  the  rest  of  the  apartment  was  so 
shadowy  she  could  not  distinguish  Besson  as  she 
turned  from  that  rapid  survey  of  her  own  daz 
zling  image. 

"  Eh  bien,  ou  est  il,  ce  cher  vilain  ?"  she  called, 


Besson's  voice  answered  her  from  the  farthest 
and  darkest  end  of  the  room,  speaking  as  slowly 
and  painfully  as  if  the  accents  of  his  native  lan 
guage  were  difficult  to  frame.  "I  am  here! 
come  this  way." 

"Are  you  ill?  What  is  the  matter,  my  poor 
Besson  ?"  she  asked,  hurrying  toward  him,  yet 
not  troubled,  in  spite  of  her  sympathizing  question. 


He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  hers 
— the  quivering  fingers  were  like  ice  as  they 
touched  her  throbbing  palm. 

"It  is  not  about  me,"  he  said,  in  the  same 
changed,  difficult  voice;  "it  is  —  it  is  —  oh,  my 
poor  girl — oh,  Fanny !" 

He  leaned  his  head  on  her  hand  and  burst  into 
low  sobs — those  terrible  sobs  of  old  age,  which 
bring  no  tears  to  relieve  them. 

Still  no  warning  struck  Fanny  St.  Simon. 
She  was  surprised — sorry  for  him  ;  but  the  tones 
of  that  beloved  melody  were  ringing  so  loudly  in 
her  ears  she  scarcely  caught  his  words. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,  Besson,"  she  said.  "I 
can't  stop  long ;  we  have  guests.  Dear  old  soul, 
don't  sob  like  that." 

"I'd  sooner  cut  my  heart  out,"  he  groaned, 
"but  I  must  tell  you!  I  didn't  know  there 
were  people  here  till  I  had  sent  for  you,  or  I 
would  have  waited." 

Still  she  was  not  much  disturbed. 

"There  is  nothing  wrong.  The  company- 
is — " 

"  It  is  not  that.  Oh,  Fanny,  try  to  be  brave ! 
It  is  too  late — the  young  Englishman  is  mar 
ried." 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  a  person  breathing 
heavily  after  great  exertion — a  quick  movement 
— a  gasping  cry. 

"I  don't  believe  it !"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  don't 
believe  it!" 

"It  is  in  an  evening  paper  that  has  just 
come." 

She  heard  the  rustle  of  the  sheet  as  he  took  it 
from  the  pocket  of  his  coat ;  she  snatched  it  out 
of  his  hand.  He  heard  her  voice  again  in  an 
awful  whisper, 

"Helen  Devcreux — Helen  Devereux!" 

"It  is  not  the  name,"  Besson  said. 

She  did  not  hear  him.  She  had  fallen  for 
ward  upon  the  sofa  where  he  sat — fainting  away 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

Castlemaine  had  found  no  great  difficulty  in 
gaining  Mrs.  Payne's  consent  to  a  speedy  mar 
riage.  Miss  Devereux  had  aided  him  with  all 
her  eloquence,  convinced  that  it  was  wisest. 
Lady  Laura's  rich  cousin  was  dead,  and  had  be 
queathed  his  fortune  to  Talbot.  He  was  wealthy 
enough  now  to  pay  his  debts  and  have  a  large 
fortune  left.  There  was  a  new  and  pleasant  ex 
citement  in  setting  himself  straight  with  the 
world.  November  passed — nearly  half  of  De 
cember.  He  was  back  and  forth  at  the  cottage, 
growing  more  eager  each  day  ;  as  wild  to  claim  ( 
his  new  toy  as  a  child. 

"Why  should  we  wait?"  he  said  to  Miss  Der- 
ereux.  "I  am  a  weak  wretch;  I  want  all  the 
help  I  can  have  to  persevere  in  this  new  path. 
To  wait  a  year  for  Marian — why,  it  is  an  eterni 
ty  !  I  can't  stay  here.  Who  knows  what  follies 
I  may  get  into,  just  from  habit?" 

Miss  Devereux  believed  she  was  acting  for  the 


78 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


best.  She  had  perfect  faith  in  his  resolves ;  so 
had  he,  for  that  matter.  Marian's  health  was 
still  delicate;  the  physician  had  recommended 
change,  and  Mrs.  Payne  detested  traveling. 
Helen  joined  in  Castlemaine's  plea  that  he  should 
be  allowed  to  have  his  bride  and  take  her  away 
to  Italy. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  Mrs.  Payne,  daz 
zled  by  the  prospect  of  Marian's  future,  should 
put  from  her  mind  how  brief  the  time  was  that 
the  girl  had  known  this  man— should  regard  the 
worldly  side  of  the  argument,  well  as  she  loved 
her  grandchild.  As  for  Marian,  she  only  want 
ed  to  do  whatever  Castlemaine  wished.  She 
only  lived  in  his  presence  ;  whatever  he  decided 
must  be  the  most  desirable  thing  in  the  world. 

The  preparations  for  a  quiet  wedding  went 
rapidly  on  ;  Castlemaine  had  no  leisure  to  grow 
weary  of  his  new  part.  This  fresh  pleasure  was 
as  gratifying  for  the  time  as  a  draught  of  pure 
water  to  the  lips  of  a  man  fevered  with  wine. 

"  Helen  Devereux !  Helen  Devereux !" 

The  name  Fanny  had  uttered,  as  she  sunk 
down  in  that  sudden  insensibility,  was  the  first 
word  on  her  lips  when  she  recovered  conscious 
ness.  The  fainting  fit  passed  very  quickly.  Be 
fore  Besson,  in  his  terror,  could  do  more  than 
dance  about  like  a  maniac,  upset  a  chair,  deluge 
himself  with  a  carafe  of  water  he  was  carrying, 
she  came  to  her  senses  unaided.  She  sat  up, 
holding  one  hand  pressed  close  against  her  head, 
the  other  over  her  heart. 

"Give  me  that  paper,"  she  said. 

Besson  put  the  journal  in  her  hands.  She 
made  one  or  two  ineffectual  efforts,  then  rose, 
and  crossed  the  room  with  a  steady  step.  She 
sat  down  near  the  lights,  and  read  the  long,  ful 
some  paragraph  which  described  the  nuptials  of 
Sir  Talbot  Castlemaine  with  the  daughter  of  the 
late  Mordaunt  Payne.  The  marriage  had  been 
strictly  private;  but  though  the  young  baronet 
had  so  lately  come  into  his  title,  under  such  pain 
ful  circumstances,  the  lack  of  delay  violated  no 
rule  of  decorum.  An  accident  he  met  with  had 
been  the  cause  of  a  severe  illness  to  the  lady — a 
warmer  climate  was  ordered  by  the  medical  au 
thorities—it  was  only  natural  and  fitting  that  she 
should  go  under  her  husband's  care. 

Fanny  St.  Simon  read  the  whole  —  slowly. 
She  was  not  conscious  of  any  poignant  suffering. 
She  felt  dead  and  cold,  that  was  all ;  as  if  some 
.  sudden  shock  had  killed  her  before  she  found 
time  really  to  comprehend  what  it  was,  and  her 
ghost  had  come  back  to  take  account  of  the 
matter. 

Besson  watched  in  an  agony  of  dread  and 
misery,  uttering  broken  exclamations,  which  she 
did  not  even  hear.  As  Fanny  folded  the  paper, 
another  paragraph  met  her  eye.  Miss  Devereux 
was  to  spend  the  Christmas  holidays  at  Barton 
Castle,  the  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Dunallen  ;  from 
there  coming  to  Paris. 


Fanny  rose,  and  gazed  in  the  glass ;  she  look 
ed  like  the  phantom  she  had  almost  thought  her 
self  during  those  terrible  minutes. 

' '  Good-night,  dear  Besson, "  she  said.  ' '  Come 
and  see  me  to-morrow,  and — and — we  have  done 
with  this." 

He  stooped,  trembling  in  every  limb,  looking 
older  and  feebler  than  ever,  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  her  robe;  in  his  great  humility  he  could 
not  even  venture  to  kiss  her  hand. 

"Dear  old  Besson,"  Fanny  said,  softly,  and 
passed  out  of  the  room. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  Tortoise's  apartments, 
found  some  rouge,  rubbed  it  carefully  on  her 
cheeks,  arranged  her  dress,  and  walked  toward 
the  salons. 

Her  absence  had  not  been  lengthy  enough  to 
attract  notice.  As  she  passed,  St.  Simon  spoke 
some  jesting  words ;  she  answered,  and  laughed 
gayly.  Mrs.  Pattaker  was  coming  in.  Fanny 
had  to  stop  and  receive  her  salutations  as  the 
grand  lady  turned  from  St.  Simon,  who  had  hur 
ried  forward  to  meet  her. 

"You  are  positively  radiant  to-night,  ma 
belle .'"  cried  the  Signer's  descendant,  greeting 
Fanny  with  unusual  warmth,  and  demonstrations 
of  positive  affection. 

Fanny,  more  than  ever  on  her  guard,  felt  cer 
tain  that  the  woman  meant  mischief. 

"I  must  have  caught  a  little  brightness  from 
you,"  she  replied.  "I  was  thinking,  as  you 
came  in,  that  I  had  never  seen  you  more  daz 
zling." 

"Flatterer!"  sighed  Mrs.  Pattaker,  patting 
Fanny's  shoulder.  She  liked  the  compliment, 
but  that  did  not  give  her  any  inclination  to  spare 
the  young  lady  the  blow  she  had  in  store.  It 
was  not  often  she  found  an  opportunity  to  give 
Fanny  a  telling  thrust  under  her  almost  impene 
trable  armor,  but  this  time  she  was  sure  of  a 
complete  victory.  "I  have  a  bit  of  news  for 
you  by-and-by,  when  you  have  time  to  listen," 
she  added,  pleasantly. 

Then  Fanny  knew  that  Mrs.  Pattaker  had 
seen  the  evening  paper,  and  hoped  to  take  her  by 
surprise.  St.  Simon,  Miss  Langois,  and  several 
other  people  were  close  about,  all  of  them  aware 
of  her  old  intimacy  with  Talbot. 

"More  news!"  cried  Fanny.  "But  I  have 
just  been  stunned  by  such  wonderful  tidings,  that 
any  other  will  fall  dull  and  flat.  Only  fancy,  dear 
Mrs.  Pattaker !  Mr.  Castlemaine  has  fallen  into  a 
baronetcy — into  matrimony,  too." 

Mrs.  Pattaker  looked  crest-fallen  enough  at  hav 
ing  the  wind  thus  taken  out  of  her  sails.  There 
were  numerous  exclamations  from  the  surround 
ing  group,  Miss  Langois'  voice  pre-eminent,  of 
course. 

St.  Simon  stood  positively  stupefied ;  watch 
Fanny  as  he  might,  even  his  eyes  could  discern 
no  emotion  under  that  smiling  front. 

"She  must  be  hit  hard,"  he  thought;   "but 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


79 


how  she  bears  it !  Upon  my  word,  she  is  a  won 
derful  creature." 

Fanny  saw  Gregory  Alleyne  approach  within 
hearing  distance ;  her  demons  rose  more  fierce 
ly  in  her  breast ;  he  should  have  his  stab — she 
would  spare  nobody  this  night.  The  blow  would 
serve  a  double  purpose,  too ;  quicken  that  slow 
decision  where  she  was  concerned.  The  thoughts 
came  like  lightning;  she  was  addressing  Mrs. 
Pattaker  again. 

"And  Miss  Devereux  is  coming  to  Paris  next 
month — fresh  cause  for  congratulation  to  us  all, 
is  it  not?" 

Her  words  had  told ;  the  quick  glance  she  shot 
unperceived  at  Alleyne  assured  her  of  this.  She 
moved  on  to  greet  some  new  arrivals,  but  while 
she  smiled  and  spoke  fitting  compliments,  her 
mind  was  busy  with  the  reflections  Alleyne's  face 
had  roused.  Before  the  new  year  came,  she 
would  have  an  opportunity  to  accept  this  man's 
hand.  The  very  fact  that  the  utterance  of  Helen 
Devereux's  name  had  still  power  to  move  him, 
would  be  to  his  mind  an  additional  reason  why 
he  should  irrevocably  decide  his  fate  before  her 
arrival.  At  least  Fanny  would  have  her  revenge ; 
she  had  lost  every  thing  else — she  would  have 
that. 

It  was  a  brilliant  evening.  Fanny's  art  had 
secured  the  scions  of  a  princely  house,  which 
might  at  any  time  become  regal  again  if  France 
wearied  of  her  republican  enthusiasm.  The 
whole  affair  was  a  complete  triumph,  and  the 
most  admired  woman  the  young  hostess,  who  ful 
filled  her  part  with  such  ease  and  grace. 

A  few  hours  later  she  stood  in  her  own  room, 
tearing  the  letter  she  had  written  on  the  previous 
night,  crushing  the  fragments  under  her  feet  as 
she  felt  her  fingers  actually  burn  at  the  touch  of 
those  pages  on  which  she  had  poured  her  whole 
heart  unreservedly  forth. 

"  It  is  war  to  the  knife  now  against  the  whole 
world,"  thought  Fanny  St.  Simon.  "Fate  and 
Helen  Devereux  would  not  let  me  be  a  good 
woman — and  I  wanted  to  be — I  did  want  to  be ! 
Well,  I  don't  know  about  fate's  chances,  but  I 
do  know  the  other  will  get  the  worst  of  it  before 
the  battle  ends." 

Once  again  there  floated  across  her  ear  the 
notes  of  the  old  Venetian  melody,  clear  and  dis 
tinct,  as  if  Castlemaine's  voice  rang  out  the  ten 
der  measures ;  and  in  all  the  universe  that  man 
was  the  one  human  being  whom  Fanny  St.  Si 
mon  would  not  have  trampled  ruthlessly  under 
foot  to  win  her  triumph  against  destiny. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

CIRCE. 

FANNY  ST.  SIMON  sat  cowering  over  the  fire 
in  her  morning-room — a  refuge  into  which  even 
St.  Simon  did  not  venture  without  considerable 


ceremony,  or  a  special  invitation.  The  atmos 
phere  of  the  luxurious  nook  was  like  that  of  an 
Italian  spring  day,  yet  Fanny  had  drawn  her  chair 
close  to  the  hearth,  shivering  as  if  the  cold  wind 
that  moaned  without  had  sent  its  keenest  blast 
through  the  apartment. 

A  week  had  elapsed  since  in  this  very  room 
Fanny  stood  face  to  face  with  the  ruin  of  her 
hopes — a  ruin  more  complete  than  a  similar  suf 
fering  might  have  brought  another  woman.  It 
was  not  only  the  anguish  to  her  heart,  the  deso 
lation  of  her  love,  which  during  these  past  weeks 
of  anticipated  success  had  grown  a  more  absorb 
ing  passion  than  ever ;  she  had  lost  every  thing, 
and  she  realized  it.  The  determination  to  rise 
out  of  the  untruthfulness  and  errors  of  her  old 
life — the  last  trace  of  softness  and  gentleness 
which  might  yet  have  redeemed  her  womanhood, 
were  gone  too.  The  black,  corroding  thought 
which  started  up  in  her  mind,  even  in  the  first 
moments  of  agony,  remained  to  make  itself  the 
abiding  principle  of  action.  The  world  was  a 
battle-ground,  every  hand  against  her,  and  she 
must  fight  her  way,  sparing  none  who  crossed 
her  path. 

It  had  been  a  rather  gay  week — that  is,  for  this 
dull  season  in  poor,  changed  Paris — and  Fanny 
had  missed  no  dinner  or  ball.  These  were  days 
of  constantly  increasing  triumph  to  the  St.  Si 
mons,  and  in  their  quality  of  foreigners  they  were 
able  to  claim  a  wider  scope  for  their  successes 
than  any  French  people  could  have  done.  The 
grand  hotel  where  the  most  prominent  of  the 
Orleans  princes  had  established  himself  was  open 
to  them  ;  the  scattered  knots  of  dissipated  elegants 
once  noted  at  the  imperial  court  were  glad  to 
welcome  them  ;  the  American  colony,  with  Mrs. 
Pattaker  at  its  head,  was  devotedly  fond  of  their 
society ;  and  they  had  been  bidden  to  several 
dinners  by  the  little  obstinate  brown  frock-coat, 
who  held  his  sway  at  Versailles  undismayed  by 
the  royal  ghosts,  to  whom  this  fact  of  seeing  the 
courtly  city  become  the  very  stronghold  of  repub 
licanism  must  have  appeared  the  crowning  des 
ecration. 

It  was  all  dull  and  odious  enough,  and,  turn 
which  way  she  might,  Fanny  knew  that  life  had 
nothing  better  to  offer.  She  was  so  tired  of  so 
ciety  and  its  petty  successes  and  failures,  its  sick 
ly  friendships  and  decorous  aversions.  She 
wished  devoutly  that  St.  Simon  had  never  come 
back.  She  might  have  carried  out  her  project 
of  going  on  the  stage  or  singing  at  a  cafe.  Any 
thing  would  be  better  than  the  future  which 
stretched  before  her.  She  hated  monotony ; 
there  was  more  excitement  in  the  tips  and  downs 
of  the  past  years.  A  hand-to-mouth  sort  of  ex 
istence — one  month  surrounded  by  luxury,  the 
next  hiding  from  creditors — possessed  a  certain 
zest  which  appealed  to  the  Bohemian  instincts  in 
Fanny's  blood. 

There  could  be  nothing  more  of  all  this.     She 


80 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


was  to  have  her  old  craving  for  wealth  gratified  ; 
to  become  a  power  in  society ;  make  a  rich  mar 
riage!  As  this  thought  presented  itself  more 
loathsome  than  the  rest,  the  mysterious-voiced 
man  at  the  head  of  the  new  domestic  staff  brought 
her  Gregory  Alleyne's  card.  It  was  like  an  an 
swer  to  her  last  reflection— she  felt  perfectly  cer 
tain  what  errand  had  brought  him.  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  fling  the  piece  of  pasteboard  into 
the  flames,  and  astonish  the  elegant  servant  by  a 
torrent  of  abuse.  Just  then  only  one  position 
would  have  suited  Fanny — to  be  an  Eastern  pa 
sha  and  bowstring  the  innocent  disturber  of  her 
quiet,  and  every  other  living  soul  in  the  house, 
Gregory  Alleyne  included.  The  very  exaggera 
tion  and  absurdity  of  her  ideas  brought  a  smile 
to  her  lips;  but  the  meek-faced  domestic,  who 
never  seemed  to  see  or  hear  unless  personally  ad 
dressed,  observed  afterward  to  the  lady's-maid 
that  he  believed  mademoiselle  would  be  capable 
of  stabbing  a  man  with  the  same  smile  on  her 
lips. 

"  Show  Mr.  Alleyne  into  the  Salon,"  she  said. 

She  had  half  risen  ;  her  glance  wandered  about 
the  apartment,  rested  on  the  spot  where  she  had 
fallen  like  a  dead  woman  under  the  shock  of  that 
final  and  fatal  blow.  She  would  receive  Alleyne 
here.  If  she  could  not  torment  any  one  else  for 
the  moment,  there  would  be  a  savage  satisfac 
tion  in  stinging  herself.  She  would  listen  to  his 
avowal  in  this  room,  which  had  grown  to  have  a 
terrible  fascination  for  her — haunted  by  the  ghost 
of  her  murdered  hopes. 

"I  am  too  cold  to  stir,  Alphonse,"  she  said; 
"  you  may  bring  monsieur  here,  if  you  please." 

The  man  bowed  and  went  out  as  cautiously  as 
if  he  must  suffer  instant  martyrdom  should  his 
boots  chance  to  creak.  Fanny  turned  her  back 
entirely  upon  the  door,  and  edged  her  chair  closer 
to  the  fire,  trying  to  bring  a  little  color  to  her 
face  and  warmth  to  her  chilled  frame,  but  in 
vain. 

She  heard  Alleyne's  step,  and  called, 

"  Can  you  find  your  way  ?  Don't  expect  me 
to  move  or  speak — I  froze  to  death  several  hours 
ago." 

He  walked  slowly  down  the  pleasant  dimness 
of  the  room,  thinking  what  a  pretty  picture  she 
formed  in  the  fire-light. 

"It  is  very  cold,"  he  said.  "How  do  you 
do,  after  the  fatigues  of  last  night  ?" 

"Don't  ask!  They  helped  kill  me  as  much 
as  the  cold.  And  to  think  there  is  no  law  to 
prevent  Mrs.  Pattaker  giving  soirees,  and  all  the 
while  a  law  which  prevents  one's  putting  her  to 
some  dreadful  death — such  an  absurd  prejudice !" 

"What  a  very  misanthropic  mood  I  have 
found  you  in!"  he  said,  taking  a  seat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hearth. 

"I  am  just  in  the  humor  to  say  all  sorts  of 
things  that  will  shock  you,"  she  answered.  "  Ad 
mit  that  you  do  disapprove  of  me  signally." 


"I  think  we  of  this  generation  have  all  too 
much  a  habit  of  talking  at  random,"  he  said. 

"Please  don't  scold  me,"  returned  she,  in  her 
softest  voice.  "  I'm  a  poor,  frozen,  dead  creat 
ure,  and  can't  defend  myself." 

"  I  had  no  thought  of  doing  so — " 

"But  it  might  bring  me  to  life  by  rousing  a 
spirit  of  contradiction  !  Do  you  know,  I  think 
you  are  a  great  deal  too  good — I  believe  I'm  a 
little  afraid  of  you ;  I  wonder  it  does  not  make 
me  hate  you." 

"I  trust  vou  have  not  reached  that  point; 
I—" 

"No,  I  have  not,  but  I'm  afraid  of  you!  I 
never  talk  so  wickedly  or  do  such  absurd  things 
as  before  you  ;  I  think  to  irritate  myself  by  see 
ing  you  look  outraged  and  superior." 

"But  I  am  sure  you  never  did  see  me  look 
so." 

"Then,  it  must  have  been  conscience;  only  I 
didn't  know  I  had  one.  Well,  if  you  will  not 
scold,  at  least  talk  and  take  me  out  of  myself. 
I  am  horribly  stupid,  and  shall  not  understand 
a  word,  so  don't  be  either  profound  or  witty." 

"  I  am  afraid  neither  effort  is  in  my  line,"  he 
replied. 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  gazed  into  the  fire, 
while  she  sat  watching  him  with  her  eyes  cast 
down.  He  looked  nervous  and  disturbed  in 
spite  of  his  self-control,  and  she  enjoyed  it. 

"Are  you  trying  to  read  your  fortune  in  the 
embers?"  she  asked.  "Our  old  Antoinette  is 
very  wise  in  that  way.  She  discovers  the  most 
wonderful  things, for  me  sometimes." 

"I  came  here  to-day  to  learn  what  it-is  to  be," 
he  said,  gravely,  glancing  toward  her  again. 

She  laughed,  affecting  to  regard  the  words  as 
a  jest. 

"But  I  have  no  skill  in  reading  the  embers," 
said  she.  "  You  must  send  for  Antoinette." 

"I  must  trust  to  you,"  he  replied;  "no  one 
but  you  can  decide  the  question  I  came  to  ask." 

She  gave  a  start ;  a  sudden,  shy,  half-fright 
ened  look,  checking  her  laughter  quickly.  She 
did  it  well,  too. 

"Perhaps  you  will  think  me  bold,  imperti 
nent,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  rather  measured 
voice;  "  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  waited  longer 
— but  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife." 

She  lifted  her  white  hands  with  an  appealing 
gesture,  then  let  them  fall  in  her  lap,  turning  her 
face  partially  away. 

"At  least  you  are  not  angry?" 

Another  troubled  gesture  of  the  white  hands 
answered  him. 

"Perhaps  I  have  been  abrupt  —  rude;  but 
listen  to  me — try  to  believe  that  I  mean  to  tell 
you  the  exact  truth." 

She  turned  toward  him  again ;  looked  full  in 
his  face,  and  there  was  the  faintest,  most  touch 
ing  quiver  in  her  voice  as  she  said,  "Why  did 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


81 


you  come  here  on  such  an  errand,  Mr.  Alleyne  ? 
You  don't  love  me  a  bit." 

"  If  that  were  true,  I  should  not  have  spoken," 
lie  replied.  "Let  me  tell  you;  then  you  shall 
decide." 

"Decide  what?"  she  asked. 

"Your  future  and  mine." 

"A  little  while  ago  I  was  telling  myself  that 
I  had  none,"  she  murmured,  as  if  thinking  aloud. 

"I  did  not  suppose  any  woman  could  ever  be 
to  me  what  you  have  grown  during  these  weeks," 
he  continued. 

"You  are  not  just  yourself  to-day, "returned 
she,  dryly.  "You  have  never  approved  of  me, 
Mr.  Alleyne.  I  have  been  wretchedly  brought 
up ;  or,  rather,  I  have  never  been  brought  up — 
I  have  been  pushed  along  like  a  bad  weed.  I 
have  been  accustomed  to  petty  artifices  for 
years.  St.  Simon  is  the  best-hearted  man  in 
the  world,  and  the  most  improvident  and  care 
less.  I  know  all  sorts  of  things  and  people  that 
I  •oughtn't  to  know !  I  have  a  thousand  ideas 
and  habits  which  would  shock  you.  I  can  smoke 
a  cigarette  and  dance  a  bolero — " 

She  had  spoken  rapidly,  half  in  a  deprecating, 
half  in  a  defiant  tone ;  she  broke  off  to  laugh 
again. 

' '  Why  do  you  tell  me  these  things  ?"  he 
asked. 

"Because  I  want  to  be  honest,  too;  besides, 
it  will  spare  you  the  trouble  of  saying  any  thing 
more.  You  can  forget  your  little  lapsus  linguw, 
as  Mrs.  Pattaker  would  say." 

"Do  you  want  to  stop  me?  Is  it  to  save  me 
pain,  feeling  that  you  can  give  no  hope  ?" 

She  struck  her  hands  together,  crying, 

"I'd  give  my  life  to  be  loved !  See,  I'd  burn 
my  ten  fingers  off  in  this  fire — suffer  torture — 
any  thing — to  be  loved!  I'm  so  lonely — my 
life  is  so  empty !  Oh !  why  do  you  come  to  tor 
ment  me  ?  It  is  cruel ;  it  is  like  showing  a  mi 
rage  to  a  desert-benighted  traveler,  parched  and 
dying  with  thirst." 

He  caught  the  cold,  quivering  fingers  in  bis  ; 
n  more  passionate  emotion  than  he  had  ever  felt 
for  her  throbbed  at  his  heart. 

"I  do  love  you, "he  said,  his  slow,  grave  voice 
warming  into  eagerness.  "You  charm  and  fas 
cinate  me.  You  have  come  into  my  life,  and 
brightened  it  so  that  I  can  not  cast  you  out,  if  I 
would." 

She  did  not  draw  her  hands  away.  Her  head 
sunk  against  the  cushions  of  her  chair,  and  he 
heard  her  whisper, 

"I  must  be  dreaming — I  must  be!" 

"I  was  a  very  desolate,  lonely  man  when  I 
met  you,"  he  went  on  ;  "  for  a  good  while  I  had 
thought  my  heart  utterly  dead.  I  had  loved  once 
— loved  as  a  very  young  man  does,  and  believed 
that  I  must  carry  the  suffering  of  my  self-decep 
tion  through  all  time  to  come.  I  know  better 
now ;  I  know  that  you  can  help  to  make  my 
G 


life  brighter.  Will  you  try? — could  you  be  will 
ing  to  try  ?" 

"And  if  you  found  you  could  not  forget ;  if — " 

"The  past  I  spoke  of  is  dead  and  buried," 
he  answered;  "there  is  no  possibility  of  a 
resurrection.  I  am  neither  weak  nor  false.  If 
some  day  you  could  marry  me,  you  will  have  no 
half  allegiance,  no  measured  affection." 

"It  sounds  very  tempting, "she  said,  with  a 
beautiful  smile.  "Are  you  sure  you  are  mak 
ing  no  mistake?  Don't  rouse  me  out  of  my 
chill  apathy,  my  dull  patience,  into  a  dream, 
from  which  I  must  wake  to  suffer.  I  can  suffer 
so!  Careless  and  reckless  as  I  seem,  I  have 
such  capabilities  for  pain." 

The  smile  died  in  a  look  of  terror ;  she  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands.  She  did  suffer.  She 
was  recalling  words  that  Talbot  Castlemaine 
had  uttered ;  she  was  remembering  the  last  aw 
ful  blow ;  she  was  torturing  herself  in  every  way 
she  could.  She  had  a  pleasure  in  so  doing,  as 
she  had  in  bewildering  this  strong  man  by  her 
fascinations. 

"I  know,"  he  said;  "I  think  I  understand 
you  better  than  you  can  suppose.  It  sounds 
vain  and  conceited,  but  indeed  it  is  not  that ; 
only,  from  the  first  you  interested  me  so  strange 
ly  that  I  could  not  help  studying  you. " 

"But  you  believe  me  better  than  I  am,  and 
you  will  not  let  me  undeceive  you.  If  you  had 
only  met  me  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  mere  girl, 
before  this  weary  life  had  taken  my  freshness 
and  youth  away !" 

"  With  that  impulsive  nature  you  will  always 
be  young,"  he  said.  "  Why,  you  have  your 
whole  life  before  you ;  you  are  only  just  out  of 
early  girlhood  now." 

"I'm  a  hundred  thousand  years  old, "she  an 
swered;  "but  I'm  a  child  all  the  same.  Oh, 
you  frighten  me !  'I  am  so  afraid  you  will  be 
disappointed  when  it  is  too  late !  I  want  to  tell 
you  so  many,  things,  and  I  can't  get  my  poor  head 
straight." 

"  I  have  been  too  abrupt." 

"  No,  it  is  so  sweet  —  I  didn't  mean  to  say 
that!  But  it  is  so  odd  to  think  you  could  actu 
ally  love  me — and  I  have  lov^d  no  one.  Once 
or  twice  I  have  fancied  I  did,  and  wept  and  raved 
and  suffered,  to  find  my  idols  only  clay.  I  can 
suffer  so!" 

"And  now,"  he  asked,  "  can  you  care  for 
me?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  with  anoth 
er  of  her  marvelous  smiles.  "Downright  love 
would  be  such  a  serious  business  to  me.  I'm 
afraid  of  it.  I  like  you  so  much — you  are  so 
strong  and  honest  and  decided,  and  I  am  such 
a  weak,  wavering  wretch !  And  oh,  if  you  de 
ceived  yourself— if  the  old  dream  were  to  come 
back!"" 

"Let  me  tell  you  about  that  season,  and  you 
will  see  how  impossible  it  is." 


82 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"Don't  tell  me! "she  pleaded.  "Don't  let 
me  ever  know  who  the  woman  was ;  tell  me  she 
is  dead — any  thing !  I  should  hate  her,  if  we 
were  ever  to  stand  face  to  face,  and  I  recognized 
her!" 

She  loved  him  — already  she  actually  loved 
him,  this  excitable,  finely -organized  creature! 
He  would  have  been  harder  and  colder  than 
stone  if  this  assurance  which  her  disconnected 
words  and  irrepressible  emotion  brought  home 
had  not  kindled  his  breast  with  a  flame  so  ea 
ger  that  for  the  time  he  could  forget  the  whole 
dreary  past  in  the  charm  of  her  influence. 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  said,  and  she  could  hear 
his  voice  tremble.  "A  whole  new  world  opens 
before  me — a  new  life — a  new  heart ;  you  will 
be  queen  there,  Fanny.  Mayn't  I  call  you  so  ? 
Such  a  pretty  name — just  made  for  you,  my  Fan 
ny,  my  own !" 

She  leaned  toward  him  as  he  took  her  hands 
again,  then  drew  quickly  back. 

"I  wish  you  would  go ^a way!"  she  cried,  pet 
ulantly.  "No,  I  don't  mean  that — I  beg  your 
pardon !  I  wish  I  could  believe  you ;  but  I'm 
so  afraid  of  you  and  myself!  I  should  be  jeal 
ous — exacting ;  ice  one  minute — hating  you  al 
most  ;  ready  to  die  the  next  to  prove  my  repent 
ance.  There  are  no  half  feelings  in  my  nature, 
and  I  am  full  of  caprices,  suspicions.  Oh,  you 
had  better  let  me  alone !  Life  did  very  well ;  it 
was  stale  and  tiresome,  but  I  knew  how  to  man 
age  it." 

"You  may  trust  me,  Fanny,  and  I  am  not 
afraid." 

She  turned  almost  savagely  upon  him. 

"You  come  to  offer  me  a  calm,  quiet  affec 
tion, "cried  she  ;  "esteem,  friendship,  all  that — 
it  would  not  be  enough !  The  man  I  marry 
must  love  me  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul.  I'll 
have  those  or  nothing." 

"And  I  think  you  may  be  sure  of  it,"  he  said, 
his  face  so  changed  and  tremulous  that  it  scarce 
ly  looked  the  came. 

Truly,  all  this  was  very  different  from  the  pic 
ture  he  had  drawn !  Well,  so  much  the  better, 
perhaps.  He  would  like  to  be  eager,  to  feel  his 
heart  bound  into  new  warmth  from  under  the 
cold  ashes  where  it  had  lain  so  long. 

And  he  should  love  her — Fanny  would  have 
her  vengeance  complete !  She  would  show  him 
to  Helen  Devereux  so  helplessly  enchained,  that 
the  proud  woman  should  see  that  not  even  a 
memory  of  her  former  empire  remained. 

"Only  a  little  while  ago,  Fanny,"  he  said, 
"the  feelings  you  ascribe  to  me  might  have  been 
my  real  ones ;  but  I  have  gone  beyond  them. 
You  have  promised  me  nothing  yet ;  still  already 
you  have  carried  me  into  a  new  world." 

"If  we  could  stay  there!"  she  murmured. 

"  Surely  it  depends  on  ourselves.  Put  your 
hand  in  mine.  Fanny;  come  with  me  into  the 
new  path  ;  don't  be  afraid." 


"I  am  sorely  tempted  to  say  yes," smiled  she  ; 
"and  with  my  usual  inconsistency,  almost  as 
much  tempted  to  send  you  angrily  away.  I'll 
do  neither — I  won't  give  you  any  answer  at 
all." 

"You  are  right  enough  ;  it  seems  hard,  but  I 
must  not  complain." 

"Give  me  a  little  time  —  let  me  think;  I'm 
dizzy  and  confused,"  she  pleaded. 

"I  am  going  to  Lyons  to-morrow  morning," 
he  said.  "  I  have  some  business  to  attend  to  there 
for  a  friend.  You  shall  have  the  three  days  of 
my  absence  to  decide." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I  want  you  to  go  away!" 
cried  she,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  feeling 
it  quiver  under  her  touch.  A  wiser  man  than 
Solomon  in  his  most  penitential  moments  could 
not  have  resisted  the  witcheries  of  this  woman. 

"  That  is  a  little  encouraging,"  he  said,  ieeling 
somewhat  as  one  does  in  a  hot-house  while  in 
haling  the  perfume  of  gorgeous  Eastern  plants  as 
poisonous  as  they  are  beautiful. 

"But  I  am  glad  too,"  she  added.  "I  shall 
get  my  mind  steady  before  you  come  back.  Ah, 
monseigneur,  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  weigh  both 
you  and  myself  in  the  balance !  It  is  like  a  fairy- 
dream,  all  the  possibilities  you  suggest ;  but  I'll 
have  it  looked  at  in  the  prosaic  light  of  this 
world,  which  we  must  live  in,  after  all." 

"A  few  days  ago  I  should  have  said  that 
would  be  wise,"  he  replied ;  "  but  I  don't  half 
like  it  now." 

"But  we  are  old  people,  worn,  de'sillusionnte ; 
we  must  not  run  any  risks,  as  a  boy  and  girl 
might." 

"We  will  insist  on  our  youth,  and  it  shall 
prove  eternal!"  cried  he,  vaguely  wondering  the 
while  if  it  could  be  actually  Gregory  Alleyne  who 
spoke,  and  was  in  earnest  too. 

"And  if  during  this  journey  you  come  back 
to  reason,  and  —  and  if  you  think  of  her,  oh, 
don't  let  us  ever  mention  the  past  again !" 

"I  think  this  last  hour  has  swept  it  out  of  ex 
istence,"  returned  he.  "I  shall  have  only  one 
thought  in  my  mind — the  return.  Give  me  a 
little  hope,  Fanny.  Tell  me — " 

"  I  shall  tell  you  nothing,"  she  interrupted. 
"Say  good-bye  now.  I'll  not  trust  you  a  mo 
ment  longer.  It  is  late ;  poor  T.  will  think  I 
am  lost." 

"What  are  yon  going  to  do  this  evening?" 

"  Shut  myself  in  my  room.     And  you?" 

"  I  have  a  tiresome  engagement — a  man's  din 
ner  ;  but  I  must  go,  because  I  have  to  see  some 
of  the  people  before  I  leave." 

"  Of  course  you  must.     Now,  good-bye." 

She  let  her  hands  rest  for  an  instant  in  his,  let 
him  press  his  lips  on  them  ;  then,  as  he  still  lin 
gered,  ran  laughingly  away. 

Alleyne  departed,  feeling  a  good  deal  as  if  he 
had  taken  a  huge  dose  of  hasheesh,  and  was  con 
scious  of  being  under  its  effects,  even  while  the 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


83 


visions  It  brought  before  his  eyes  seemed  so 
strangely  real. 

And  Fanny  St.  Simon,  in  the  silence  of  her 
chamber,  was  kneeling  before  a  picture  of  the 
glorious  face  which  had  long  ago  blinded  her, 
weeping  and  moaning  in  an  agony  of  despair. 
So  much  acting  had  left  her  nerves  unstrung, 
and  she  was  forced  to  allow  herself  an  hour's  in 
sane  outburst.  But  she  was  ready  for  dinner  all 
the  same,  floating  in  as  gay  and  unconcerned  as 
a  gorgeous  butterfly.  The  famous  dramatist  was 
there,  and  Fanny  and  St.  Simon  were  going  with 
him  to  see  a  new  play  destined  to  fascinate  re 
publican  Paris  by  its  wickedness,  even  while  the 
great  city,  with  a  newly  awakened  sense  of  vir 
tue,  railed  against  the  improprieties  of  the  stage 
under  the  imperial  rigime. 

Fanny's  talk  was  almost  as  witty  and  daring 
to-night  as  the  play,  which  the  dramatist  had  al 
ready  seen  at  rehearsal,  and  he  and  St.  Simon 
were  in  ecstasies  with  her. 

"You  must  have  been  at  some  outrageous  bit 
of  mischief  to-day,"  said  the  latter. 

"Yes,  I  came  near  committing  the  crowning 
sin  of  my  life,"  she  replied  ;  "it  has  put  me  in 
great  spirits." 

"Lor,  Fanny!"  cried  the  Tortoise,  in  English, 
with  her  mouth  full  of  vol-au-vent. 

"Have  you  found  out  a  new  one?"  asked  the 
dramatist.  "It  would  be  only  charitable  to 
share  the  secret ;  we  are  so  tired  of  all  the  old 
affairs." 

Then  the  two  men  began  guessing  what  it 
could  be,  and,  accustomed  as  the  Tortoise  was 
to  all  kinds  of  conversation,  even  her  hair  stood 
on  end  at  their  remarks  and  Fanny's  replies. 
She  gurgled  and  choked  till  St.  Simon  said, 

"  Have  you  any  last  words  to  offer,  T.  ?  This 
seems  a  final  gasp." 

"I  wish  Fanny  wouldn't  talk  so,"  she  shiv 
ered. 

Fanny  immediately  translated  the  remark  into 
French  for  the  dramatist's  benefit,  and  the  three 
laughed  more  hilariously  than  ever. 

"Some  Champagne,  St.  Simon,"  said  the 
dramatist;  "we'll  drink  to  the  success  of  la 
belle." 

While  they  were  smoking  their  cigarettes, 
Fanny  went  into  the  salon  next,  and  wrote  a 
note  taAHeyne : 

"I  meant  to  have  staid  in  my  room  and  tor 
mented  myself.  I  am  going  to  the  theatre  in 
stead.  You  see  I  am  getting  my  senses  back. 
Three  days,  did  you  say  ?  I  am  thinking  of  a 
Sisterhood  ;  you  shall  help  me  decide  which  has 
the  most  becoming  dress  when  you  return.  Ah, 
well,  I  am  glad  you  are  gone,  for  I  miss  you, 
and  it  is  pleasant  to  have  the  sensation." 

St.  Simon  entered,  and  read  the  address  over 
her  shoulder. 

"  He  was  here  a  long  time  to-dny." 

"Yes  ;  I  have  sent  him  to — Lyons." 


"What  do  you  mean?  Did  he  propose — 
actually  ?"  cried  St.  Simon,  with  eagerness. 

"Your  tone  is  offensive,"  laughed  she.  "  Did 
I  not  tell  you  I  was  near  committing  the  crown 
ing  sin  of  my  rife  ?" 

"Cinq  cent  diables!"  groaned  he.  "You 
can't — you  won't  say  you  did  not  jump  at  the 
chance  ?" 

"My  dear  St.  Simon,  I  am  too  lady-like  to 
jump  at  any  thing;  I  start  a  little  at  your 
coarseness." 

"  You'd  never  be  so  mad,  especially  now  that 
Cas— " 

"Nor  you  so  bold,  if  you  had  not  drunk  an 
extra  bottle  of  Champagne,"  she  interrupted. 

He  restrained  himself;  he  had  been  too  hasty. 
It  would  not  be  safe  to  put  her  in  a  rage. 

"My  dear  Fan,  you  know  it  is  only  my  inter 
est  in  you,  my  one  human  feeling." 

"Tender  plant!"  said  she,  amicably.  "Tell 
Alphonse  to  send  this  note  to  Mr.  Alleyne's 
lodgings.  He  is  out,  and  I  want  him  to  have  it 
when  he  gets  home." 

"But  what  did  you  say?" 

"That  I  was  going  to  the  theatre." 

"You  know  I  don't  mean  that.  But  he  may 
come,  and  if  he  should  see  our  friend  the  dram 
atist!" 

"  That  is  why  I  waited  till  now  to  send  the 
note.  He  is  out  dining." 

"And  he  did — did — propose?" 

"He  did  ;  much  as  it  seems  to  surprise  you." 

"And  you?" 

"  Sent  him  to  Lyons,  I  tell  you." 
.    St.  Simon  looked  paralyzed. 

"All  men  are  idiots,"  quoth  she;  "even  you 
are  no  exception.  Oh,  St.  Simon,  St.  Simon, 
when  I  told  you  that  I  wanted  revenge,  and 
Helen  Devereux  coming  to  Paris!" 

She  looked  so  positively  awful  that  he  was 
glad  to  leave  the  subject.  He  was  convinced  at 
last  that  he  need  have  no  fear  of  her  intentions 
in  regard  to  Gregory  Alleyne. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   TALE    OF   VENGEANCE. 

TALBOT  CASTLEMAINE  had  taken  his  wife  away 
to  Italy.  Old  Mrs.  Payne  left  her  little  cottage 
and  went  to  the  Park,  to  remain  until  spring 
should  bring  the  newly  married  couple  home. 
Miss  Devereux  saw  her  comfortably  established 
there,  quite  capable  still  of  finding  pleasure  in 
the  luxury  which  had  suddenly  come  into  her 
old  days  ;  then  the  young  American  sent  for  her 
step-mother,  and  set  oft'  upon  a  round  of  un 
avoidable  visits. 

She  would  much  rather  have  staid  with  Mrs. 
Payne,  and  vegetated  in  the  quiet ;  but  she  told 
herself  it  was  weak  and  silly  to  have  any  such 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


feeling,  and  it  must  resolutely  be  put  by.  It  was 
not  until  after  she  had  decided  to  go  to  Paris  for 
a  time  that  she  chanced  to  learn  of  Gregory 
Alleyne's  presence  there;  then  her  pride  would 
not  allow  her  to  change  her  plans.  He  was 
nothing  whatever  to  her ;  the  past  was  nothing ; 
in  fact,  it  was  as  well  they  were  to  meet.  If 
there  was  the  least  feeblenesss  left  in  her  heart, 
she  would  be  obliged  to  recognize  it,  and  this 
would  give  her  strength  relentlessly  to  trample 
it  down. 

But  her  society  was  pertinaciously  insisted 
upon,  first  at  one  grand  mansion,  then  another, 
and  these  reasons  for  delaying  her  journey  pre 
vented  the  necessity  of  admitting  that  she  shrunk 
from  the  possible  trial.  She  was  neither  melan 
choly  nor  dull ;  the  events  of  these  later  months 
had  done  her  too  much  real  good  not  to  leave  an 
added  cheerfulness.  It  was  so  great  a  pleasure 
to  believe  she  had  not  been  mistaken  in  Castle- 
maine — to  see  him  rise  so  quickly  and  decidedly 
out  of  the  errors  of  the  old  life,  and  march  reso 
lutely  forth  on  a  new  road.  She  was  very  glad 
this  new  road  could  be  rendered  easy  to  his  feet 
— that  he  could  even  mount  in  a  chariot  and  ride 
along  it  when  he  listed.  The  thought  of  Marian's 
happiness,  too,  was  a  constant  source  of  deep 
gratification  and  thankfulness — a  certain  self- 
gratulatory  feeling  naturally  enough  mingled 
therewith,  as  she  remembered  her  own  share  in 
the  work. 

Marian's  letters  were  not  too  frequent,  but  so 
full  of  ecstatic  enjoyment  when  they  did  arrive, 
that  they  invariably  made  a  kind  of  festival  in 
Miss  Devereux's  heart ;  for  this  woman,  under 
her  cold,  somewhat  haughty  exterior,  possessed 
a  warm,  affectionate  nature,  and  friendship  meant 
a  great  deal  to  her. 

Yes,  on  the  whole,  these  were  the  pleasantest 
days  she  had  spent  in  a  long  while.  She  had 
her  seasons  of  loneliness  and  discouragement, 
of  asking  herself  what  good  she  was  in  the 
world,  what  her  life  signified,  what  she  was  to 
do  with  it — all  those  troublesome  demands  peo 
ple,  not  forced  into  real  exertion  by  necessity, 
are  given  to  utter  when  the  first  bloom  has  worn 
off  existence.  Helen  Devereux  had  loved  and 
suffered ;  neither  had  been  an  unreal  or  imagi 
nary  sentiment.  Through  all  time  those  memo 
ries  must  leave  their  impress,  and  shadow  the 
years  with  their  weight. 

But  she  had  firmly  fastened  upon  the  resolve 
formed  the  day  of  Castlemaine's  accident.  She 
would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  marriage. 
Neither  loneliness,  interest,  nor  ambition  should 
ever  tempt  her  again.  If  she  could  find  no 
heart  to  give,  she  would  rest  one  of  the  attend 
ants  of  Saint  Catherine  to  the  end  of  the  chap 
ter. 

This  rendered  her  part  in  society  easier  at 
once.  There  were  few  instincts  of  coquetry  in 
her  nature;  and  at  the  beginning  of  her  ac 


quaintance  with  any  man  who  showed  himself 
attracted  by  her  fortune  or  her  beauty,  she  made 
it  evident,  as  a  woman  can  if  she  chooses,  that 
he  need  hope  for  nothing  beyond  tolerance  and 
pleasant  companionship.  Somehow  other  wom 
en  instinctively  perceived  this,  though  there  were 
few  capable,  of  penetrating  the  reason ;  the  rest 
only  marveled  what  inordinate  hope  the  creature 
indulged  when  they  saw  her  turn  indifferently 
upon  the  gleam  of  more  than  one  coronet  which 
its  owner  showed  would  be  gladly  enough  placed 
upon  her  republican  forehead.  But,  whatever 
her  motive  might  be,  this  coldness  left  her  pres 
ence  much  less  dangerous ;  and  even  the  most 
rampant  mothers  with  marriageable  daughters 
whom  she  encountered  at  this  period  were  loud 
in  her  praises.  Indeed,  she  seemed  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  aiding  these  latter  innocents,  pro 
vided  she  could  believe  them  influenced  by  any 
real  feeling ;  and  she  thought,  laughingly,  that  her 
late  success  had  developed  a  decided  match-mak 
ing  spirit. 

This  round  of  visits  among  some  of  the  most 
charming  country-houses  in  England  was  a  suf 
ficiently  new  experience  to  be  very  agreeable, 
and  I  might  crowd  several  chapters  with  the 
stereotyped  accounts  of  hunts,  dinners,  county 
balls,  and  the  like.  I  might  add  to  the  list 
three  days  spent  at  the  royal  castle  which  over 
looks  Windsor  town — rather  long,  heavy  days 
Miss  Devereux  was  forced  to  admit,  under  her 
breath — and  a  week  in  the  quiet  of  Chiselhurst, 
where  her  old  admiration  for  the  most  gracious, 
winning  woman  of  our  century  warmed  into  a 
higher  homage  at  the  sight  of  the  uncomplaining 
fortitude  which  ennobled  that  uncrowned  brow. 

But  all  these  matters  would  be  mere  episodes; 
and  I  have  a  story  to  tell  and  none  too  much 
space,  so  need  not  fill  up  my  pages  with  unneces 
sary  details. 

One  morning  Miss  Devereux  woke  to  the  fact 
that  her  late  season  of  contentment  was  dis 
turbed.  She  felt  weary,  listless,  and  wanted 
change — something  new,  to  take  her  out  of 
herself.  There  was  neither  sense  nor  reason 
in  this  sudden  restlessness ;  she  knew  it,  and 
was  angry  at  her  own  folly,  but  this  did  not 
better  matters.  All  of  us  going  out  of  our 
youth  have  learned  what  it  is  to  try  for  patience* 
and  contentment,  and  have  stood  aghast  and  in 
dignant  often  and  often  to  find  ourselves  swept 
back  into  the  whirlpool  of  unrest  just  when  we 
believed  repose  and  ability  to  put  thought  aside 
had  been  attained. 

Miss  Devereux  decided  to  go  at  once  to  Paris  ; 
perhaps  from  there  she  would  wander  on  to  Italy 
and  join  the  Castlemaines.  She  longed  to  see 
the  newly  married  pair,  to  enjoy  their  compan 
ionship  and  happiness,  and  forget  therein  her 
selfish  breedings  and  dismalness  generally. 

"Do  let  us  flit,  mamma;  I  am  tired  of  the 
fog,"  she  said;  and  that  quietest,  most  indiffer- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


85 


ent  of  women,  her  step-mother,  was  perfectly 
willing  to  depart. 

Had  Helen  proposed  a  journey  to  Siberia  or 
South  Africa,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same 
to  the  placid  lady,  provided  she  took  her  com 
panion,  her  pet  dog,  and  the  last  new  novels ; 
was  sure  of  her  game  of  piquet,  and  a  chaufferette 
for  her  feet. 

"I  want  an  apartment  for  a  month — longer 
if  I  choose;  the  one  we  formerly  hud  in  the 
Champs  Elyse'es,  if  possible.  They  must  send 
from  the  Cafe'  Anglais  to  manage  the  dinners. 
Every  thing  can  be  ready  by  Thursday,  I  sup 
pose.  You  can  meet  us  at  Calais." 

Thus,  on  Monday,  Miss  Devereux  to  her 
faithful  Jules  —  the  most  wonderful  creature, 
ready  to  be  courier,  major-domo,  man  of  busi 
ness,  or  any  thing  else  his  young  mistress  might 
chance  to  require,  and  fulfilling  whatever  posi 
tion  assigned  with  perfect  skill  and  faithfulness. 

An  order  for  a  bouquet  of  flowers  could  not 
have  been  more  carelessly  given,  or  received 
with  greater  composure ;  though  every  thing, 
from  apartment  to  servants,  must  be  secured  in 
the  space  of  two  days,  and  look,  when  the  lady 
arrived,  as  if  the  haunt  were  her  home. 

Miss  Devereux  had  no  idea  of  being  unrea 
sonable,  but  she  was  so  accustomed  to  wielding 
the  true  enchanter's  wand — at  least  of  our  pro 
saic  age — great  wealth,  that  it  had  never  occur 
red  to  her  the  command  was  enough  to  take  away 
the  breath  of  ordinary  people  just  to  hear. 

There  was  no  haste  or  worry  or  other  annoy 
ances  which  remind  most  persons  they  are  mor 
tal  when  it  comes  to  a  journey.  A  special  train 
took  Miss  Devereux  and  her  step-mother,  and 
the  companion,  the  pet  dog,  the  maids,  the 
mountains  of  luggage,  and  the  under  man,  who 
lived  in  abject  fear  of  Jules,  to  Dover  in  time  for 
the  day  boat.  There  was  Jules  to  meet  them, 
and  wither  the  soul  of  the  under  man  anew  by 
his  baleful  glare,  and  away  they  all  sped  toward 
Paris. 

The  weather  had  changed ;  the  unusually  se 
vere  December  snows  had  given  place  to  steady 
rain  and  mist,  and  poor  Paris  seemed  fated  nev 
er  to  be  treated  to  another  gleam  of  sun. 

"We  must  have  brought  the  English  fog  with 
us,"  observed  Miss  Devereux,  as  the  carriage 
crossed  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  turned 
into  the  Champs  Elyse'es,  where  the  wind  moan 
ed  and  shook  the  leafless  trees  in  a  remorseless 
fashion.  "  Cordy,  I  am  sure  you  hid  a  little  in 
your  pocket,  just  to  remind  you  of  England." 

Miss  Cordy  was  the  companion,  good  to  read 
to  Mrs.  Devereux,  to  work  monsters  in  Berlin 
wool,  to  talk  mildly  when  required.  After  all, 
unimportant  as  most  people  would  have  thought 
her,  Miss  Cordy  was  of  some  use  in  the  world, 
which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  quantities  of 
others. 

Miss  Cordy,  accustomed  to  the  heiress's  whim 


sical,  good-humored  sallies,  only  shook  her  head 
in  reply — too  busy  keeping  the  pet  dog  quiet  for 
words.  The  pet  was  an  ungrateful  beast ;  Miss 
Cordy  was  devoted  to  him,  but  whenever  any 
thing  disturbed  his  comfort  he  invariably  tried 
to  bite  her.  His  nerves,  as  usual,  had  been 
upset  by  the  journey,  and  it  seemed  that  noth 
ing  but  a  taste  of  Miss  Cordy's  scant  flesh  could 
soothe  them. 

"I  wonder  you  don't  let  him  bite  you  and  be 
done,"  observed  Miss  Devereux  ;  "you  know  you 
will  in  the  end." 

"Poor  thing,  he's  only  tired,"  returned  Miss 
Cordy  and  Mrs.  Devereux  in  the  same  breath. 

They  both  had  always  as  many  excuses  for  the 
little  wretch  as  if  he  were  a  spoiled  child,  and 
Helen  a  hard-hearted  guardian,  with  small  pa 
tience  for  his  vagaries. 

"How  dreary  it  is!"  sighed  the  young  lady. 
"Mamma,  I  almost  wish  we  had  gone  straight 
on  to  Italy ;  I  am  sure  Paris  will  be  as  dismal  as 
a  tomb. " 

She  shivered,  drew  her  furs  about  her,  and  re 
lapsed  into  a  silence  from  which  she  did  not 
emerge  until  they  had  entered  the  luxurious  apart 
ment,  rendered  perfect  by  Jules's  genius.  Then 
Miss  Devereux  said, 

"It  is  all  as  comfortable  as  possible  ;  thanks, 
Jules.  Tell  them  to  have  dinner  rather  early. 
Mrs.  Devereux  is  tired,  and  I  know  Miss  Cordy 
has  a  headache." 

Jules  retired  walking  on  air;  praise  from  his 
mistress  was  the  one  thing  that  could  make  his 
wooden  heart  throb.  Miss  Cordy  felt  the  young 
lady's  kindness,  for  during  her  struggle  of  thirty 
years,  from  twenty  to  fifty,  with  the  world,  she 
had  been  governess  or  companion  in  too  many 
families  not  to  appreciate  the  invariable  consid 
eration  which  rendered  her  present  existence  so 
placid  and  restful. 

It  was  a  long,  dull  evening  to  Miss  Devereux. 
Again  and  again  she  regretted  that  she  had  un 
dertaken  the  journey,  and  grew  cold  and  nerv 
ous,  though  she  would  not  attempt  to  analyze 
her  feelings.  She  staid  resolutely  in  the  salon 
and  played  agreeable — talked  with  her  step-moth 
er,  joked  Cordy  into  forgetfulness  of  her  head 
ache  ;  and  was  repaid  for  her  exertions  by  nn 
ability  somewhat  to  overcome  her  uneasiness  and 
vngue  dread. 

In  the  silent  watches  of  the  night,  before  sleep 
came — for  Miss  Devereux,  of  late  years,  had  a 
mighty  struggle  to  secure  that  blessing — she 
asked  if  it  was  possible  she  could  be  moved  by 
the  fact  of  finding  herself  near  Gregory  Alleyne. 
It  was  not  true — it  should  not  be  true.  The 
composure  with  which  she  would  meet  him  at  the 
earliest  opportunity  should  convince  her  con 
science.  But  sleep  was  long  in  coming,  and 
when  she  found  that  her  vagrant  fancies  had 
gone  wandering  back  into  the  groves  of  the 
haunted  past,  she  was  so  disgusted  and  indignant 


86 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


that  once  more  she  took  refuge  in  the  multipli 
cation-table,  and  this  time  dreamed  she  was  a 
school-boy's  slate,  and  that  Mr.  St.  Simon  kept 
adding  figures  on  her  with  a  very  scratchy  pen 
cil,  while  Fanny  looked  on,  laughing  at  her  ef 
forts  to  escape,  and  pointed  her  out  to  a  man 
who  stood  near.  Miss  Devereux — still  a  slate 
with  a  little  wooden  rim  which  had  a  hole  in  it 
and  a  string  run  through — was  trying  to  get 
sight  of  this  man's  countenance  as  she  shivered 
under  the  touch  of  St.  Simon's  pencil.  She 
wanted  to,  and  yet  dreaded  it,  and  was  aware 
of  wishing  that  she  was  not  a  slate,  so  that  she 
might  see  more  clearly.  Suddenly  Fanny  turn 
ed  him  round,  against  his  will,  it  seemed,  and  the 
face  was  that  of  Gregory  Alleyne.  It  was  his 
face,  for  an  instant  full  of  love  and  trouble — only 
an  instant ;  then  Fanny,  with  a  shriek  of  rage, 
caught  her  (always  a  slate)  and  tried  to  break  her 
in  pieces  on  a  marble  floor,  while  Alleyne  pleaded 
in  vain.  Then  as  she  was  thrown  down,  down, 
and  knew  she  must  be  mashed  to  atoms  (the 
marble  floor  suddenly  retreating  several  hundred 
feet  below),  she  woke,  and  found  herself  in  bed, 
with  the  morning  light  straying  coldly  in  through 
the  closed  curtains. 

That  these  people  should  haunt  her  dreams — 
these  three  in  company,  too!  Miss  Devereux 
was  so  outraged  at  her  own  absurdity  that  she 
vowed  never  to  sleep  again,  and  thumped  her 
pillow  almost  as  revengefully  as  Fanny  had  treat 
ed  her  when  a  slate. 

Still  rainy  and  cold  and  detestable !  All  day 
long  Miss  Devereux  wished  lijerself  leagues  away, 
but  in  her  changed  mood  could  fix  upon  no  spot 
which  looked  tempting  to  her  fancy.  What  was 
the  use  of  removing — what  was  the  use  of  any 
thing,  in  fact?  She  put  this  demand  as  an  an 
swer  to  every  suggestion  her  mind  offered,  and 
you  and  I  know  from  experience  that  when  one 
is  in  this  mood  life  looks  a  very  miserable  busi 
ness  indeed. 

Helen  Devereux  was  too  important  a  person 
age  in  the  world  of  idle  fine  people  for  her  arriv 
al  to  be  a  secret  many  hours.  Jules  had  gone  to 
the  bank  this  morning  for  her  letters.  There 
were  always  Americans  lounging  there  eager  for 
news ;  and  the  fact  of  her  appearance  in  Paris 
was  soon  known,  and  creating  almost  as  much 
excitement  as  if  she  had  been  a  two-headed  wom 
an,  or  a  rope-walker,  or  some  other  marvelous 
monstrosity. 

There  were  calls  and  cards  and  notes,  and  a 
pleading  billet  from  the  pretty  Marquise  de  Bel- 
lancourt,  beseeching  her  adored  Helen  to  grace  a 
reunion  at  her  house  that  night. 

"I  should  come  myself  to  tease  you,"  she 
wrote,  "  but  I  have  a  sore  throat,  and  am  afraid 
to  stir  out  lest  I  should  croak  like  a  raven  all  the 
evening.  Do  come,  else  I  will  go  to  bed  ill.  I 
want  to  astonish  people  by  showing  you ;  it  will 
make  a  sensation  for  my  soiree,  and  you  can  not 


be  cruel  enough  to  disappoint  me.  The  dear 
mamma  shall  have  a  tranquil  game  of  whist  with 
a  good  partner.  I  know  she  will  not  refuse." 

Mrs.  Devereux,  when  consulted,  was  well  dis 
posed  to  yield  to  the  attractions  of  the  promised 
whist,  and  Helen  felt  that  any  thing  would  be 
better  than  remaining  at  home. 

It  was  late  when  they  entered  the  rooms,  filled 
*with  a  party  of  the  most  agreeable  French  peo 
ple  Paris  could  boast  this  winter ;  a  few  English 
notables,  and  a  sprinkling  of  Americans,  for 
whom  the  marquise  professed  a  decided  weakness. 
The  heiress's  entrance  created  the  sensation  the 
pretty  Frenchwomen  desired  ;  and  had  Helen 
only  kept  the  bloom  of  her  first  season,  she 
might  have  believed  herself  the  most  enviable 
person  in  the  world,  in  the  matter  of  possessing 
real  friends.  Late  as  she  was,  there  was  a  later 
arrival.  While  Miss  Devereux  sat  listening  to 
the  chatter  of  a  merry  group,  St.  Simon  and  his 
niece  entered,  accompanied  by  Gregory  Alleyne. 

Fanny  and  the  marquise  were  rather  intimate 
just  now.  During  the  day  the  Frenchwoman 
had  written  to  her  asking  some  favor,  bidding 
her  not  to  forget  her  engagement  for  the  evening, 
and  adding  that  Miss  Deverenx  was  in  Paris, 
and  had  promised  to  come.  Fanny  decided  to 
make  Alleyne  accompany  her.  It  was  currently 
reported  now  that  she  was  engaged  to  the  man ; 
but  whether  to  let  him  thus  appear  in  her  wake 
was  quite  in  accordance  with  French  etiquette, 
mattered  little  to  her.  People  could  call  it  an 
American  girl's  freedom  if  they  chose ;  she  must 
and  would  enter  that  room  side  by  side  with 
him,  utter  her  greeting  words  to  Helen  Dever 
eux,  still  standing  by  his  side. 

The  first  warning  Miss  Devereux  had  of  the 
propinquity  of  this  woman,  whom  she  felt  to  be 
her  enemy,  was  in  St.  Simon's  approach.  He 
bowed  over  her  hand,  and  uttered  such  graceful, 
friendly  welcomes,  that  all  observers  must  have 
supposed  them  on  the  most  cordial  terms.  Miss 
Devereux  was  perfectly  civil,  and  asked  at  once 
for  the  Tortoise,  only  giving  her  the  name  which 
legally  belonged  to  her,  instead  of  that  tender  pet 
name. 

"  My  poor  wife  was  not  well  enough  to  come 
out,"  he  said;  "always  somewhat  of  an  invalid, 
you  remember .1  She  sent  volumes  of  loving  mes 
sages,  and  means  to  see  you  to-morrow." 

The  Tortoise  was  often  indisposed  when  the 
St.  Simons  were  invited  to  houses  where  her 
spouse  did  not  care  to  take  her. 

"Fanny  is  here,"  continued  that  gentleman; 
"she  will  find  you  presently:  she  is  wild  to  see 
you.  We  only  learned  since  we  came  in  of  your 
arrival.  And  how  well  you  look  !  English  air 
has  agreed  with  you." 

He  turned  to  some  French  people  near  to  re 
iterate  his  remark  in  their  tongue,  and  did  de 
light  and  enthusiasm  so  neatly  that  Miss  Dever 
eux  wondered  if  he  really  forgot  she  knew  him, 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


87 


:at  least  partially.  But  there  was  slight  space 
for  thought.  On  through  the  curtained  portiere 
which  separated  the  boudoir  from  the  outer  sa 
lons  came  Fanny  St.  Simon,  exquisitely  dressed, 
and  in  the  very  height  of  her  capricious,  change 
ful  beauty.  Miss  Devereux  gave  one  glance, 
then  a  sudden  mist  seemed  to  gather  before  her 
eyes.  The  floor  exhibited  an  odd  tendency  to 
waver  up  and  down,  the  shaded  lights  to  dance, 
the  groups  about  to  totter,  as  if  unsteady  on  their 
legs.  Then  through  the  mist,  the  wavering  ra 
diance,  and  the  odd  dizziness,  Miss  Devereux 
saw  the  man  upon  whose  arm  Fanny  leaned ; 
looked  (as  if  straining  her  eyes  from  a  great  dis 
tance)  upon  the  cold,  proud  face  of  Gregory  Al- 
leyne. 

At  the  same  instant  an  old  acquaintance  stand 
ing  by  the  sofa  where  she  sat  bent  over  Miss 
Devereux,  and  whispered, 

"  St.  Simon's  niece  has  done  famously  for  her 
self  at  last;  she  is  engaged  to  that  icicle  of  a 
man." 

The  weakness  and  dizziness  passed  as  rapid 
ly  as  they  had  come ;  the  floor  remained  station 
ary;  every  thing  resumed  its  ordinary  appear 
ance.  Not  a  pulse  quickened,  not  a  throb  smote 
her  heart.  It  was  the  heat  of  the  place,  not 
the  sight  of  this  man,  which  had  affected  her ;  or, 
if  one  gust  of  memory  did  for  a  second  threat 
en,  the  words  opportunely  whispered  in  her  ear 
dispelled  it.  She  was  talking  easily  to  those 
about,  and  could  watch  the  pair  as  they  walked 
up  the  room.  She  saw  Alleyne's  face  light  into 
a  smile  at  some  words  his  companion  spoke; 
saw  him  bend  to  her  with  a  quietly  absorbed 
manner  he  was  at  no  pains  to  hide. 

Another  moment,  and  they  were  close  to  the 
sofa.  Alleyne  looked  up  and  saw  her,  and  the 
pride  and  coldness  came  back  to  his  counte 
nance.  In  the  time,  however,  he  had  nothing  to 
do  but  wait.  Fanny  was  holding  Miss  Dever- 
eux's  hand,  and  uttering  pleasant  greetings,  not 
so  enthusiastic  as  St.  Simon's,  but  very  prettily 
worded.  Then,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  remem 
brance,  she  said, 

"My  dear  Miss  Devereux,  let  me  present — oh, 
I  forgot !  I  am  sure  I  have  heard  Mr.  Alleyne 
say  he  used  to  know  you." 

"Yes;  it  needs  no  introduction  on  my  part, 
though  he  looks  rather  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
me,"  returned  Miss  Devereux.  "I>am  very 
happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Alleyne;  pray  shake 
hands." 

It  was  the  work  of  a  second  ;  he  bent  over  the 
gloved  fingers,  speaking  decorous  words;  there 
was  nothing  for  any  body  to  notice  or  wonder  at. 
But  Fanny  St.  Simon  studied,  the  two  with  a 
cruel  satisfaction.  Miss  Devereux  was  perfect 
in  her  role.  Alleyne  did  as  well  as  a  man  could 
— of  course  showing  a  little  stift'  and  grim.  Her 
scene  had  not  missed  its  point.  Fanny  was  cer 
tain  of  that,  and  she  exulted. 


She  hated  them  both,  as  she  gazed :  the  girl, 
for  having  crossed  her  destiny ;  the  man,  for  be 
ing  moved  by  this  apparition  from  the  past ;  the 
pair,  for  this  very  suffering,  even  while  she  gloat 
ed  over  it,  which  she  felt  confident  they  endured. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
SPENCER'S  FAREWELL. 

GREGORY  ALLEYNE'S  absence  was  unavoida 
bly  prolonged  beyond  the  time  he  set  for  his 
return.  The  business  which  he  had  promised 
to  attend  to  for  his  friend  proved  unexpectedly 
troublesome,  necessitating  a  journey  as  far  as 
Marseilles,  and,  between  delays  and  divers  other 
annoyances,  he  remained  twelve  days  instead  of 
three. 

He  wrote  Fanny  frequently,  and  she  answered 
his  letters ;  bright,  sprightly  epistles  she  penned, 
too,  with  now  and  then  a  touch  of  seriousness 
or  feeling,  a  burst  of  weariness  and  loneliness, 
though  she  reserved  for  his  re-appearance  the  re 
ply  to  the  question  he  had  asked  at  their  parting. 

During  that  season,  occupied  as  he  was,  Greg 
ory  Alleyne  found  leisure  to  dwell  upon  the  new 
turn  he  had  given  his  future.  Removed  from 
the  spell  of  Fanny's  presence,  the  prospect  did 
not  show  so  bewildering  as  it  had  looked  the  day 
she  charmed  him  with  her  siren  ways.  But  he 
was  convinced  that  he  had  done  well,  and  he  be 
lieved  she  cared  for  him — had  cared  for  him  be 
fore  he  spoke.  He  was  not  a  vain  man,  even  if 
he  did  think  this ;  he  had  a  right  to  believe  it 
after  her  disconnected  words — her  manner,  which 
seemed  to  reveal  much  that  she  meant  to  keep 
secret. 

He  said  that  by  this  step  he  should  secure 
more  happiness  than  he  had  ever  hoped  to  find. 
He  knew  that  Fanny  was  far  from  perfect — that 
she  spoke  the  truth  when  she  averred  she  had 
been  badly  trained.  He  recognized  serious  faults, 
though  in  no  carping  spirit,  or  with  any  sensation, 
of  fear  for  his  peace.  She  was  coquettish,  spoil 
ed,  capricious,  hasty- tempered,  but  honest  and 
womanly  at  the  bottom ;  and  all  these  faults 
would  fade  in  the  peace  and  higher  aims  their 
wedded  life  was  to  bring  both. 

He  could  not  account  for  it,  but  during  this 
period,  when  he  thought  of  Helen  Devereux  he 
felt  more  anger  than  he  had  done  either  in  the 
freshness  of  his  grief,  or  the  chill  apathy  which 
followed.  So  he  told  himself  that  the  last  faint 
ray  of  the  old  love  was  dead.  He  was  surprised 
that  it  should  have  left  a  ghost  so  like  hatred ; 
rather  shocked,  too,  and  got  away  from  the  idea, 
for  he  had  no  mind  to  cumber  his  life  with  en 
mities.  The  idea  of  vengeance,  which  was  Fan 
ny  St.  Simon's  one  fervent  creed,  he  held  in  the 
utter  abhorrence  that  any  really  broad,  noble 
mind  must  do.  A  man  may  err  and  sin,  and 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


still  leave  hope,  still  retain  high  qualities ;  but 
the  human  being  who  harbors  that  desire  of  re 
venge  is  no  more  capable  of  struggling  toward 
the  light  than  Lucifer  was  to  scale  the  heavenly 
ramparts  from  which  he  had  been  flung. 

Gregory  Alleyne  returned  to  Paris,  and  again 
stood  by  Fanny  St.  Simon,  and  asked  the  ques 
tion  he  had  put  that  fatal  day. 

"  How  is  it  to  be,  Fanny  ?"  he  demanded,  aft 
er  telling  her  how  long  and  dark  his  season  of 
absence  had  seemed. 

"  I  have  been  in  so  many  different  minds  since 
you  went  away,  that  I  hardly  know  which  I  had 
decided  should  be  the  abiding  one, "she  answer 
ed,  having  no  intention  of  losing  a  single  point 
of  a  single  scene  while  the  new  state  of  affairs 
could  in  the  slightest  degree  amuse  her  weary 
hours. 

"Does  that  mean  you  can  not  care? — that 
my  affection  brings  no  hope  of  rest  and  peace  ?" 
he  inquired,  anxiously. 

True  to  his  masculine  instincts,  the  fear  which 
rose  in  his  mind  made  the  possible  loss  seem 
very  great. 

She  gave  him  one  quick  glance,  and  turned 
away  her  eyes. 

"If  we  both  live  to  be  old  and  paralytic  and 
decrepit,  I'll  answer  that  question  honestly,  what 
ever  I  may  decide  now,"  she  said ;  and  her  voice 
trembled  so  prettily  in  this  effort  at  playfulness. 
"And  am  I  to  go  on  alone  till  then — " 
"  Oh,  if  I  could  be  sure,"  she  interr.upted. 
"Of  what?  of  yourself— of— " 
"Of  you,"  she  interrupted  again.     "If  you 
should  deceive  yourself!     I  warned  you,  Mr. 
Alleyne,  that  I  am  capable  of  being  insanely 
jealous." 

In  the  beginning  of  a  love  affair  no  man  was 
ever  annoyed  at  the  idea  of  a  woman's  jealousy ; 
though  when  the  passion  comes  actually  into 
play,  there  is  little  under  heaven  so  inexpress 
ibly  wearisome  to  the  sons  of  Adam. 

"You  ought  to  have  let  me  tell  you  all  my 
story  as  I  wished,"  he  said.  "  You  must  let  me 
do  so  now ;  then  you  will  be  satisfied." 

"  I  wouldn't  hear  it  for  the  world  !"  she  cried, 
putting  out  her  hands  like  a  frightened  child. 
"Not  a  syllable  —  not  a  sign  that  could  evei 
make  me  recognize  the  woman  if  we  met.  She 
is  dead — I  have  settled  that.  Let  her  lie  in  hei 
grave." 

"  Let  us  say  requiescat  for  the  past  of  both,' 
he  said,  smiling,  once  more  encouraged  by  hei 
Words  and  manner. 

"Oh,  mine!  Why,  I've  a  dozen  ideals  dead 
and  buried ;  if  I  was  really  to  marry  you,  I  dare 
say  every  time  I  was  cross  I  should  bring  them 
up  to  overwhelm  you  by  their  perfection  !" 

If  he  had  known  it,  the  forbearance  with  whicl 
he  could  support  her  jesting  at  this  momen 
might  have  warned  him  there  was  less  grave 
depth  to  his  feelings  than  he  believed.     Her  lev- 


ty  teased  and  tantalized  him,  rendered  him  a  lit- 
le  more  eager,  stoic  though  he  was,  but  brought 
no  pain. 

"Ah!  now  be  serious,"  he  urged. 
Her  face  grew  grave,  almost  sad. 
"Do  not  suppose  me  quite  so  selfish  as  I 
eem,"  she  said.     "I  talk  of  my  own  feelings 
— my  possible  jealousy — my  dread  of  suffering. 
Oh,  do  believe  that  I  am  generous  enough  to 
-hink  of  you!" 

She  leaned  forward,  rested  her  hand  on  his, 
•and  looked  in  his  face  as  she  had  done  on  that 
other  day. 

"Think,"  he  said,  "that  you  can  make  me 
lappy." 

"  If  I  could  believe  it  —  if  I  could !  But  I 
know  myself  so  Avell.  I  am  so  difficult  to  live 
with — one  hour  gay,  the  next  as  sullen  as  if  I 
liad  a  great  trouble ;  perhaps  most  forbidding 
when  my  heart  is  tenderest.  Oh,  my  demons 
are  so  strong ! " 

Had  it  been  the  case  of  another,  Gregory  Al 
leyne  would  have  said  that  to  love  this  creature 
with  the  character  she  drew  might  be  very  be 
witching,  but  to  have  her  for  a  wife  would  offer 
little  hope  of  the  tranquillity  that  so  indissoluble 
a  bond  leaves  desirable.  In  his  own  case  he 
only  thought  she  looked  very  charming  —  that 
she  had  talents  and  soul  far  beyond  most  of  her  ' 
sex. 

I  confess  to  a  fondness  for  describing  a  sen 
sible  man  allured  by  an  enchantress ;  there  is 
something  delicious  to  me  in  his  idiocy  just 
when  he  believes  himself  the  wisest. 

"You  could  not  be  convinced, "she  said,  pres 
ently. 

"I  can  not  go  back  from  my  wish,"  he  re 
plied.  "Nothing  you  could  have  to  tell  would 
change  that." 

"And  if  I  consented,  and  disappointment 
came,  you  would  not  blame  me ;  you  would  re 
member  I  warned  you — would  say  I  tried  to  do 
my  best ;  pity  me  if  I  failed  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  can  promise  that  too. 
Whatever  apparently  impossible  chance  our  lives 
may  hold,  I  will  remember  what  I  say  now, 
Fanny." 

His  words  touched  her — really  touched  her. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes ;  a  wish  in  her 
mind  that  she  were  different,  but  neither  hes 
itation  nor  remorse. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  please,"  she  answered, 
softly. 

As  he  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehehd,  with, 
many  hasty  words  which  would  not  bear  setting 
down  in  cold  black  and  white,  Fanny  St.  Simon 
was  remembering  her  dream  of  a  few  weeks 
past.  She  had  sat  in  that  very  chair,  and  fan 
cied  the  door  opening,  and  Talbot  Castlemaine 
entering  the  room ;  had  felt  his  breath  on  her 
cheek,  his  kisses  on  her  brow. 

Fate  had  flung  her  back  from  the  portal  which 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


89 


led  to  Paradise — flung  her  down  into  endless 
night,  and  harred  the  door.  Let  Fate  answer 
for  the  consequences. 

Fanny  decreed  that  every  thing  was  to  go  on 
as  usual — at  present,  anyway.  People  would 
discover  the  truth  soon  enough ;  there  was  no 
hurry.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  think  of  keeping 
Helen  Devereux  deceived  until  her  arrival,  if  she 
could  only  tell  the  news  herself.  She  should 
know  how  the  creature  writhed  under  it,  in  spite 
of  her  ability  to  be  calm. 

When  this  hour  of  their  meeting  did  come, 
Fanny  had  her  sensation  of  enjoyment,  quiet  as 
the  scene  was.  She  lingered  there  for  some 
time  ;  she  forced  the  pair  to  talk. 

At  last  Roland  Spencer  came  toward  them — 
changed  a  good  deal  during  these  last  days, 
which  had  been  full  of  trouble  to  him.  He 
could  not  bear  to  approach  Fanny  while  Alleyne 
was  beside  her,  yet  he  could  no  more  resist  than 
a  moth  can  avoid  a  flame. 

The  groups  had  gathered  about.  Alleyne  man 
aged  to  get  a  little  away  from  Miss  Devereux's 
neighborhood  ;  Fanny  beckoned  Spencer. 

"Please  give  me  your  arm,"  she  said;  "this 
room  is  stifling  with  the  odor  of  flowers.  I  want 
to  move  about." 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  for  two  days,"  he  began, 
in  a  voice  of  eager  reproach,  as  they  walked  down 
the  apartment. 

"I  have  been  so  busy,  and  out  so  much ;  but 
I  missed  you,"  she  replied. 

"Oh!  what  is  this  I  have  heard  ?  I  couldn't 
believe  it  —  I  don't!"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice 
sounding  the  more  passionate  and  troubled  from 
the  repressed  tone  in  which  he  was  forced  to 
speak. 

"I  can't  talk  to  you  here,"  she  said  ;  "let  us 
go  on  through  the  salons.  There  is  a  conserva 
tory  back  of  the  tea-room,  and  there's  no  one 
there  yet." 

They  met  the  marquise  on  the  way. 

"I  am  going  to  show  Monsieur  Spencer  your 
lovely  gardenias,"  said  Fanny ;  and  by  her  tone 
the  marquise  knew  she  did  not  wish  to  be  inter 
rupted. 

Now,  in  her  time  Fanny  had  often  obliged  the 
marquise ;  famous  for  her  flirtations,  and  trou 
bled  by  a  jealous  husband,  the  two  women  were 
quite  sous  yene  with  each  other. 

"Go  through  the  salle  a  manger,"  said  ma- 
dame;  "I  don't  want  the  other  doors  opened 
yet." 

She  gave  a  rapid,  amused  glance  at  Spencer's 
face. 

"Poor  little  fly!"  she  thought,  as  she  passed 
on.  "Ah,  well,  at  his  age  men  suffer;  later, 
they  make  us  suffer.  There's  compensation  in 
all  things." 

Fanny  and  her  companion  crossed  the  ante 
chamber  and  the  dining-room,  and  entered  the 
conservatory,  dimly  lighted  by  colored  lamps 


and  heavy  with  the  scent  of  exotics.  She  sat 
down,  and  motioned  Spencer  to  sit  beside  her ; 
but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  It  isn't  true — tell  me  it  isn't  true !"  he  cried, 
breaking  silence  for  the  first  time  since  they  left; 
the  boudoir. 

"My  dear  Roland — my  best  of  brothers,"  she 
said,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you — " 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  are  engaged  to  Gregory 
Alleyne  ?"  he  interrupted. 

She  bowed  her  head.  He  stood  absolutely 
stunned  for  an  instant,  then  flung  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  shak 
ing  from  head  to  foot. 

"Roland,  Roland!"  she  exclaimed. 

She  was  shocked  and  grieved  beyond  measure ; 
she  had  not  meant  to  make  him  suffer.  Some 
boyish  pain  he  must  feel,  perhaps ;  but  she  had 
never  intended  to  deal  him  a  deadly  blow,  to 
become  the  fate  which  should  fling  him  out  of 
his  careless  youth  forever  upon  the  bleak,  sharp 
rocks  of  reality. 

He  lifted  his  white,  agonized  countenance  at 
her  appeal,  and  a  phantom  of  his  old  joyous 
smile  parted  his  lips. 

"  I'm  a  fool !"  he  said,  brokenly.  "  Perhaps 
you  did  not  know  how  mad  I  have  been.  I  love 
you,  Fanny,  I  love  you !" 

She  sunk  on  her  knees  beside  him,  and  seized 
his  hands.  She  was  perfectly  earnest ;  she  would 
not  have  stirred  or  hesitated  if  Gregory  Alleyne 
himself  had  appeared. 

"Oh,  my  poor  boy,  my  poor  Roland!"  she 
sobbed.  "I  did  not  mean  this — I  did  not!  I 
meant  to  be  like  a  sister  to  you.  I  am  fonder 
of  you  than  of  any  body  in  the  world!  I'd 
sooner  have  cut  my  hand  off  than  done  you  this 
wrong !  Don't  hate  me ;  don't  think  I  have 
been  false!" 

He  was  so  touched  by  her  emotion,  that  the 
tears  which  he  could  not  find  for  his  own  misery 
rose  to  his  eyes. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  said,  hastily.  "Get 
up,  Fanny.  Oh,  don't  kneel  to  me ;  I  can't 
bear  it !  You  are  not  to  blame.  I  am  an  idiot, 
that  is  all !  You  thought  I  was  a  boy !  I'm  a 
man,  and  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul — I  love 
you ! " 

"Don't  sny  it;  ah,  don't!"  she  cried,  rising 
slowly.  "  See,  Roland,  you  have  your  whole 
existence  before  you,  and  I  am  going  out  of  my 
youth — " 

"You  are  scarcely  two  years  older,"  he  broke 
in. 

"I  am  a  whole  life  older,"  s.he  answered, 
sadly.  "I  am  no  more  fit  to  be  loved  by  you 
than  —  than  —  oh,  there  are  no  similes!  It  is 
only  a  fancy ;  yon  will  forget  it.  You  will  find 
out  what  love  really  is  some  day,  and  see  the 
difference." 

"I  may  live  through  it,"  he  said,  hoarsely; 
"people  don't  die  easily,  I  fancy.  But  there's 


90 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


no  hope  of  my  forgetting;  I  would  not  if  I 
could !  I  am  proud  to  love  you  ;  I  honor  my 
self  therefor. " 

I  believe  nothing  in  the  world  could  have  hu 
miliated  Fanny  St.  Simon  so  utterly  as  this  con 
fession.  If  the  knowledge  could  have  eased  his 
pain,  she  would  have  shown  herself  to  him  as 
she  really  was — let  him  hear  every  secret  of  her 
dark,  revengeful  spirit. 

"I'm  not  worthy;  I'm  not  fit,"  she  said. 
"Listen  to  me,  Koland.  There's  nothing  so 
dear  to  me  as  your  affection.  I  would  rather 
stand  well  in  your  esteem  than  that  of  the  whole 
world  ;  but  I  can  not  let  you  think  of  me  as  you 
do." 

"You  could  not  change  me,"  he  replied. 
"You  might  make  me  sorry — for  I  don't  be 
lieve  you  are  a  happy  woman,  Fanny — but  you 
could  not  alter  my  faith,  my  pride  in  loving 
you." 

"And  I  have  wrecked  your  life,"  she  went  on  ; 
"  and  you  were  the  only  person  I  would  not  have 
gladly  hurt !  I  always  thought  if  I  had  a  broth 
er — and  you  seemed  like  one —  Oh,  Roland, 
Roland,  what  a  miserable  wretch  I  am !" 

"  Do  you  love  this  man  ?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed  bitterly. 

"You  will  despise  me,"  she  said.     "  Well,  at 
least,  then,  you'll  not  suffer.    Love  him,  Roland ! 
Why ! — never  mind  ;  I  must  marry,  I  am  grow 
ing  old.     He  is  rich,  pleasant  enough,  generous  ! 
enough.     Don't  you  see  ?    I  am  selling  myself 
— following  the  rule  laid  down  by  this  world  I  • 
live  in,  and  pretend  to  scorn." 

"  Poor  Fanny !"  he  said,  sorrowfully.  "  May 
be  I  should  have  hated  the  man  if  you  had  told 
me  you  cared  for  him.  But  I  am  sorry  for  you 
now." 

"Don't  be,"  she  replied;  "I  am  not  worth 
it." 

"  Why,  at  least  you  like  me,"  he  began. 

"Don't  finish,  Roland,"  she  cried.  "My 
dear  boy,  I  would  not  do  you  the  wrong  of 
marrying  you;  there  is  nothing  I'd  not  rather 
suffer!" 

"I  know ;  I  understand.  You  are  very  good 
to  me,  Fanny.  I  shall  remember  it  when  I  am 
gone,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"Are  you  going  away,  Roland  ?" 

"I  can't  stay  here.  You  don't  think  I  can 
stay  here  and  see — and  see — " 

He  could  not  finish;  he  struck  his  forehead 
violently  with  his  clenched  hand,  enraged  at  his 
own  weakness. 

"  Yes,  you  %must  go,"  she  said,  slowly.'  "I 
must  lose  you !  I  had  nothing  else  left — I  must 
lose  you!" 

She  was  not  acting.  Never,  except  during 
the  days  when  she  had  let  Talbot  Castlemaine 
read  her  heart  under  the  silver  radiance  of  the 
Italian  moon,  had  she  been  so  perfectly  truthful, 
so  thoroughly  in  earnest  as  now. 


"If  it  could  do  any  good  I  would  stay,  Fan 
ny,  "he  answered,  trying  to  calm  himself  when 
he  saw  how  she  suffered. 

"No,  no;  you  are  right  to  go.  But  yon  will 
not  leave  me  always,  Roland  ?" 

"I'll  come  if  I  can  be  of  the  least  use  to  3-011, 
Fanny.  Wherever  I  am,  you  need  only  speak  ; 
I  shall  come." 

"But,  anyway,  after  a  few  months  you  will 
be  back  ?  This  will  pass — you  don't  believe  me, 
Roland,  but  it  will." 

"We'll  not  talk  about  that,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
sorry  I  have  distressed  you." 

"Don't  you  speak  about  being  sorry,"  she 
cried ;  "that  hurts  me  worse  than  any  thing." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  those  people  again,"  he 
continued;  "I  shall  slip  off.  You  must  not 
stop  any  longer,  dear." 

He  employed  the  tender  epithet  unconscious 
ly,  but  Fanny  noticed  it.  She  knew,  too,  that 
it  came  not  from  his  love,  but  his  brotherly  so 
licitude  with  her  weary,  solitary  life,  and  the 
dismal  future  she  had  chosen — dismal,  because 
she  had  not  even  the  bond  of  friendship  or  a 
single  sympathetic  impulse  to  draw  her  toward 
the  man  whom  she  had  accepted  for  her  future 
husband. 

Roland  kissed  her  cold  hands,  and  led  her  to 
the  door.  His  face  looked  so  changed,  so  much 
older.  Something  of  assertion  and  control  in 
his  manner  struck  her  painfully.  The  doubts 
of  the  past  days,  culminating  in  the  suffering  of 
this  night,  had  driven  Roland  out  of  the  last  of 
his  boyhood. 

She  knew  the  house  well,  and  made  her  way 
into  madame's  dressing-room.  A  couple  of  la 
dies  were  standing  there  in  conversation.  Fan 
ny  returned  to  the  salons  in  their  company. 
There  were  several  young  girls,  ay,  and  several 
married  coquettes,  who  missed  Roland's  hand 
some  face,  crowded  as  the  rooms  had  become; 
but  no  one  except  the  marquise  knew  that  Fan 
ny  had  any  thing  to  do  with  his  departure. 

"I'm  afraid  the  poor  moth's  wings  are  badly 
scorched,"  that  lady  whispered,  as  she  chanced 
to  find  herself  near  Miss  St.  Simon. 

"Indeed  not," Fanny  answered.  "Why,  he 
is  like  a  younger  brother  to  me;  he's  only  in 
a  little  difficulty  just  now  —  nothing  of  conse 
quence." 

She  had  never  kept  any  man's  secret,  but  she 
meant  to  keep  Roland's.  She  was  thinking,  as 
she  walked  back  to  the  company,  that  if  he  were 
to  die  suddenly,  his  pale,  suffering  countenance 
would  haunt  her  more  dismally  than  the  recol 
lection  of  many  an  intentional  wrong. 

The  number  of  people  present  allowed  Alleyne 
to  avoid  Miss  Devereux  without  difficulty,  nor 
had  that  lady  the  slightest  intention  now,  or  at 
any  future  time,  of  conducting  herself  toward 
him  other  than  as  the  most  casual  acquaintance. 
A  few  words  she  meant  to  speak,  and  as  soon  as 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


91 


possible.  She  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  con 
gratulate  him  on  the  report  whispered  in  her  ear 
as  he  first  approached,  and  was  several  times  re 
peated  during  the  evening. 

St.  Simon  himself  managed  to  speak  of  it  in 
one  of  his  frequent  returns  to  her  neighborhood. 
lie  had  not  forgotten  Fanny's  revelation,  and  he 
had  a  singular  enjoyment  in  stinging  any  body 
when  he  could ;  a  weakness  often  observable  in 
men  of  his  temperament,  though  custom  has  set 
it  down  among  the  rank  of  feminine  foibles. 

"I  was  charmed  to  receive  a  letter  from  you," 
he  said,  "  though  you  were  not  in  a  mood  to  con 
sider  business  proposals." 

"I  am  very  well  content  to  leave  my  affairs 
as  they  are,"  she  replied ;  "  and  I  have  rather  a 
fancy  for  owning  land,  even  if  it  brings  me  in 
nothing.  By-the-way,  you  have  been  in  Nevada 
— the  scenery  is  said  to  be  magnificent." 

St.  Simon  launched  forth  in  its  praise,  and  he 
could  give  wonderfully  fine  descriptions.  She 
was  interested,  wishing  almost  that  it  were  pos 
sible  to  like  the  agreeable  man.  He  brought  the 
conversation  round  to  the  mines,  and  she  con 
gratulated  him  on  his  success. 

"But  you  are  not  tempted  to  join  us?"  he 
asked. 

She  laughed.  She  could  not  resist  letting  him 
see  that  she  perceived  the  drift  of  his  amiable 
.attentions. 

"I  am  as  obstinate  as  ever,"  said  she.  "I 
hate  mines  —  such  dark  holes!  and  I  mean  to 
keep  my  Nevada  lands  to  build  a  cottage  on, 
when  I  go  back  to  America.  How  well  your 
niece  is  looking !"  she  added,  by  way  of  changing 
the  subject. 

"  Dear  Fanny !  these  are  very  happy  days  for 
her,"returned  St.  Simon,  enthusiastically.  "Per 
haps  you  have  not  heard — I  believe  she  is  rather 
shy  yet  about  having  it  known — " 

"But  such  pretty  secrets  always  get  out," ob 
served  Miss  Devereux,  as  he  paused.  "Allow 
me  to  congratulate  you  for  her.  I  think  your 
niece  and  Mr.  Alleyne  admirably  suited  to  one 
another." 

She  spoke  in  the  sweetest  tone,  and  looked 
genuine  satisfaction ;  yet  St.  Simon  felt  that  she 
meant  something  derogatory  to  both.  He  wo"uld 
have  liked  to  pinch  her  as  he  did  the  Tortoise, 
her  composure  aggravated  him  so  much. 

His  next  thought  was  of  a  certain  paper  which 
lay  in  his  escritoire.  He  was  thinking  that  Miss 
Devereux  had  good  reason  to  congratulate  him 
on  his  success ;  in  another  case,  dangerous  as  the 
attempt  might  have  proved,  that  document  would 
scarcely  be  lying  unheeded  where  it  was  now. 

Miss  Devereux  was  more  determined  than 
ever  to  utter  to  Gregory  Alleyne  the  few  words 
she  had  it  in  her  mind  to  speak.  She  found  an 
opportunity  before  the  evening  ended.  She  had 
seated  herself  in  a  deep  window  recess  of  the 
music-room  while  some  professional  people  were 


singing  delightful  melodies  which  she  wanted  to 
hear  in  peace,  undisturbed  by  exclamations  or 
applause.  As  she  rose  to  leave  her  nook,  she  saw 
Alleyne  near — was  obliged  to  pass  close  to  him. 
He  said  something  about  the  music ;  she  an 
swered  :  a  brief  conversation  was  unavoidable. 
Fanny  St.  Simon  watched  it  all  from  a  distance. 
She  liked  to  see  theni  forced  to  talk,  because  con 
fident  the  necessity  was  torture  to  both.  She 
had  not  the  slightest  dread,  if  they  met  each  day 
for  the  next  year,  of  any  approach  to  an  expla 
nation.  She  knew  them  so  well  that  she  was 
aware  either  would  sooner  die  by  inches  than 
refer  to  the  past. 

"You  have  every  reason  to  like  England  after 
your  success,"  Alleyne  said,  in  answer  to  some 
remark  of  hers. 

"  Insolent!"  thought  Miss  Devereux.  "  HQ 
speaks  as  if  I  were  a  dancer  or  rope-walker." 
Then  aloud,  "And  you,  to  like  Paris.  Pray  al 
low  an  old  acquaintance  to  congratulate  you — 
I  do  heartily.  I  never  saw  two  people  who 
seemed  better  suited  to  one  another  than  you 
and  Miss  St.  Simon." 

He  perceived,  as  St.  Simon  had  done,  the 
honeyed  sting.  He  was  angry  ;  not  on  his  own 
account,  but  Fanny's. 

"You  honor  me  beyond  my  deserts,"  he  said  ; 
"but  I  shall  try  to  be  worthy  of  the  prize  I  have 
won  ;  at  least,  I  am  aware  how  great  it  is." 

"  In  that  fact,  then,  your  future  wife  possesses 
a  great  hope  of  happiness,"  she  replied,  calmly. 
"You  are  doubly  a  fortunate  man,  since  you 
appreciate  your  good  fortune." 

Then,  of  course,  he  could  do  nothing  but  bow. 
Miss  Devereux  had  said  all  she  meant  or  wished 
to  say,  and  so  remained  silent.  Women  always 
endure  such  awkward  pauses  with  a  provoking 
ease  that  men  can  only  envy  and  grow  irritated 
in  watching.  Fortunately,  other  people  came  up, 
and  Miss  Devereux  floated  away. 

More  than  once  during  the  evening  he  found 
himself  regarding  her  from  afar,  and  wondered 
if  he  actually  hated  her  —  he  who  had  always 
vowed  never  to  load  his  soul  with  this  most  in 
tolerable  of  human  burdens.  He  feared  that  it 
was  true,  since  her  presence  had  power  to  stir 
tumultuous  feelings  in  his  breast.  Love  had 
long  since  died  out ;  therefore,  the  storm  must 
be  the  rush  of  bitterness  and  hate.  He  despised 
his  own  weakness;  what  he  wanted  was  to  meet 
her  without  emotion  of  any  kind,  and  he  would 
learn  to  do  it.  The  woman  who  had  so  cruelly 
deceived  him  was  worthy  of  no  sentiment  beyond 
indifference. 

"What  a  beautiful  creature  she  is! "Fanny 
St.  Simon  said,  softly,  as  he  stood  looking  at 
Helen  Devereux,  annoyed  by  such  reflections 
I  have  set  down. 

Fanny  had  come  np  unnoticed,  and  spoke 
suddenly  that  a  nervous  person  would  have  start 
ed.     Alleyne  turned   calmly   toward  her.     He 


92 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


did  not  attempt  either  subterfuge  or  lie,  as  nine 
people  out  of  ten  would  have  done. 

"  Yes,  very  heautiful,"  he  answered. 

Fanny  rather  admired  his  courage,  and  did  not 
try  further  to  tease  him  just  then,  partly  because 
he  had  not  taken  refuge  in  falsehood,  and  partly 
because  some  man  drew  near  at  the  instant  to 
whom  she  wished  to  speak.  But  she  was  safe  not 
to  forget ;  and  if  her  mood  changed,  she  might 
term  his  truthfulness  impertinence,  and  punish 
him  sorely  therefor  in  the  numberless  ways  she 
always  had  ready  to  her  hand  for  people  who 
vexed  her. 

She  was  thinking  more  of  Roland  Spencer, 
however,  than  any  body  else ;  savage  with  her 
self  for  the  pain  she  had  wrought  his  gallant 
heart. 

"I  declare,"  she  thought,  as  she  sat  alone  in 
her  room  that  night,  "it  seems  to  me  I  do  the 
most  harm  to  those  I  like  and  want  not  to  injure. 
It  is  too  hard,  but  in  keeping  with  all  the  rest." 

The  next  day  St.  Simon  took  the  Tortoise  to 
see  Miss  Devereux,  as  he  had  said  he  should  do. 
Fanny  did  not  accompany  them  :  she  had  flatly 
refused  when  her  uncle  had  requested  her  so 
ciety. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  gained,"  she  said. 
"Don't  waste  your  time  in  politeness  to  that 
creature.  She  hates  you,  and  you  know  it." 

"I  am  not  to  blame  if  she  will  hold  unchris 
tian  sentiments.  I  only  pity  her,"  laughed  he. 
"Besides,  I  think  she  rather  likes  me,  even  if 
she  will  not  trust  me  with  her  money." 

"I  would  not  forgive  a  person  thinking  me 
dishonest,"  retorted  Fanny. 

St.  Simon  laughed  more  heartily  than  before. 

"I  like  penetrating  people,"  said  he.  "Then, 
take  my  word  for  it,  civility  always  pays." 

"I'll  go  and  see  her  when  I  have  something 
disagreeable  to  say,  not  otherwise,"  she  an 
swered. 

"Don't  be  childish,  Fan  ;  it  is  unworthy  of  your 
broad  head.  Come,  now.  A  sacrifice  on  the 
altar  of  politeness. " 

"Go  and  be  civil,  if  you  choose,  but  let  me 
alone,"  cried  she.  "I've  the  devil  in  me  this 
morning,  and  so  I  warn  you." 

He  saw  that  she  was  telling  the  truth,  and  left 
her  in  peace. 

Fanny  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  on  poor 
'  Roland's  account,  and  was  incapable  of  disguises 
or  proper  behavior  at  present. 

Miss  Devereux  was  oblivious  of  the  young 
lady's  absence;  and  so  busy  talking  to  the  Tor 
toise,  that  she  avoided  noticing  the  elaborate  ex 
cuses  St.  Simon  offered  her  step-mother  on  behalf 
of  his  niece.  But  St.  Simon  was  determined  she 
should  listen,  so  he  turned  directly  toward  her. 

"She  is  a  good  deal  occupied  in  these  days, 
as  you  may  imagine,"  he  said. 

"Oh  yes;  and  you  too,  I  suppose,"  replied 
Helen,  pleasantly.  "Take  care  not  to  break 


your  neck  in  that  mine — though  I  am  told  it  is 
a  wonderful  success." 

"  And  Fanny  is  going  to  be  married,"  gasped 
the  Tortoise,  not  having  heard  a  word  either  had 
spoken — just  going  on  with  her  own  chaotic  bits 
of  thought. 

"I  have  already  congratulated  her,"  said  Miss 
Devereux,  "or  else  her  future  husband  ;  but  it 
would  be  all  the  same,  of  course." 

"Quite  the  same,"  observed  St.  Simon,  in  his 
suavest  tone.  "I  never  saw  two  people  more 
attached ;  it  is  really  beautiful,  even  to  an  old 
stager  like  me." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Miss  Devereux,  and 
smiled  at  him. 

St.  Simon  devoted  himself  a  good  deal  to  the 
elder  hostess  after  this.  Helen  Devereux's  smiles 
were  very  sweet,  but  sometimes  they  angered  St. 
Simon  almost  beyond  self-control. 

Miss  Devereux  was  as  nice  as  possible  to  the 
Tortoise ;  and  at  dinner  that  dull  animal  chanted 
her  praises  until  both  uncle  and  niece  were  thor 
oughly  exasperated.  The  Tortoise  might  have 
suffered  sorely,  only  each  listener  saw  how  her 
remarks  irritated  the  other,  and  so  the  Tortoise 
was  allowed  to  continue  her  monotonous  song. 

"Is  it  not  delightful  to  hear  her?"  cried  St. 
Simon  at  last.  "Do  you  not  enjoy  it,  Fan  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  she,  coolly  ;  "  but  I  enjoy  see 
ing  you  writhe  under  poor  T.'s  rhapsody,  bearing 
it  because  you  think  it  annoys  me." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  she  knew  by  the  ex 
pression  of  his  face  that  he  was  mentally  uttering 
horrible  anathemas.  She  had  got  the  best  of  him, 
as  she  usually  did.  The  small  triumph  restored 
her  good-humor,  which  had  been  severely  shaken 
all  day.  She  persuaded  the  Tortoise  off  upon 
another  topic — no  easy  thing  to  accomplish  ;  but 
Fanny's  resources  were  infinite.  St.  Simon  suf 
ficiently  appreciated  her  efforts  to  make  a  dis 
play  of  magnanimity. 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,"  he  said,  when  the  Tor 
toise  was  too  busy  with  some  candied  fruits 
(which  were  her  special  weakness)  either  to  talk 
or  listen.  "I  am  beginning  to  dislike  that  Dev 
ereux  girl  as  much  as  you  do." 

" Beginning !"  quoth  Fanny.  "Well,  I  need 
nof  put  myself  in  a  passion.  So  much  the  better 
if  we  agree ;  and  now  don't  let  us  mention  her 
name  fcr  a  week,  no  matter  how  much  we  may 
happen  to  want  to  torment  each  other." 

"A  bargain,"  said  Simon. 

The  visit  had  to  be  returned,  and  was  in  due 
season.  Fanny  did  enjoy  that,  because  Gregory 
Alleyne  happened  to  be  sitting  beside  her  when 
the  cards  were  brought  up.  He  kept  his  place 
as  Miss  Devereux  and  her  step-mother  entered. 
Fanny  was  talking  eagerly  to  him,  and  had  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  Of  course,  the  scene  lasted 
only  a  second  after  the  opening  of  the  door,  but 
long  enough  to  show  that  a  tender  interview  had 
been  interrupted. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


93 


Then  Fanny  moved  forward  to  utter  pretty 
welcomes  in  her  graceful  way,  and  Alleyne  fol 
lowed,  to  fill  his  part  as  well  as  masculine  attri 
butes  would  permit. 

Mrs.  Devereux  was  not  aware  that  an  engage 
ment  had  existed  between  her  step-daughter  and 
Alleyne.  She  was  a  good,  kind  woman ;  but  so 
weak  that  even  in  her  early  girlhood  Helen  nev 
er  dreamed  of  leaning  upon  her — indee*d,  she  had 
always  been  forced  to  act  as  prop  to  her  relative. 

"I  saw  your  card,  Mr.  Alleyne,"  she  said, 
after  the  first  greetings.  "I  was  sorry  we  were 
out.  We  shall  always  be  home  now  of  a  Wednes 
day  ;  I  hope  you  will  not  forget  us." 

For  once  in  her  life  she  had  stumbled  on  the 
right  thing  to  utter;  and  Helen  was  grateful,  be 
cause  there  remained  no  necessity  for  her  to  say 
any  thing. 

Then  the  Tortoise  came  in  ;  and  by  the  time 
she  got  settled  in  her  chair,  and  could  talk  intel 
ligibly,  St.  Simon  appeared. 

"  So  your  old  admirer,  Castlemaine,  is  mar 
ried,  Miss  DeVereux,"  that  gentleman  observed, 
after  the  first  necessary  talk  about  the  weather 
and  the  dullness  of  Paris  was  over. 

"Absolutely  married,"  she  replied. 

"It  took  us  all  here  by  surprise, "he  contin 
ued.  "People  had  said  you  did  not  mean  to  per 
severe  in  your  noted  cruelty  toward  my  sex. " 

"That  was  good  of  them, "said  Miss  Dever 
eux,  laughing. 

"St.  Simon  evidently  does  not  believe  in  the 
light  of  his  sex  to  have  any  choice  in  such  mat 
ters,"  cried  Fanny,  laughing  too. 

"But  they  will," returned  Miss  Devereux,  with 
a  meaning  in  her  tone  which  Fanny  caught ;  so 
did  St.  Simon,  and  waited  for  the  sparring  he 
had  hoped  his  remarks  might  bring  on  between 
the  two. 

Miss  Devereux  knew  little  of  Fanny's  secrets  ; 
but  she  remembered  formerly  thinking  the  girl 
attracted  by  Castlemaine. 

"He  has  married  the  dearest  creature,"  she 
went  on — "pretty  as  a  wood-nymph;  and  they 
are  very  happy.  Gay  Sir  Talbot  was  really  in 
earnest  at  last." 

"  He  suddenly  developed  a  taste  for  bread- 
and-butter,"  said  Fanny. 

Another  retort  rose  to  Miss  Devereux's  lips, 
but  she  checked  it,  feeling  ashamed  that  she  had 
employed  the  weapons  her  enemies — as  she  in 
stinctively  felt  uncle  and  niece  to  be — wielded  so 
ruthlessly.  She  changed  the  conversation  by  ask 
ing  Fanny  some  question  about  a  Russian  friend. 

The  idle  chatter  held  its  course.  Alleyne's 
principal  share  consisted  in  exchangingcommon- 
places  with  Mrs.  Devereux ;  only  when  Fanny 
now  and  then  appealed  to  him  to  confirm  or  dis 
sent  from  a  remark  of  Helen's,  showing  her  cus 
tomary  art  in  teasing  the  pair. 

The  visit  did  not  last  long;  it  was  dreary 
work,  Miss  Devereux  thought. 


"Paris  is  not  like  itself,"  she  said  to  her  step 
mother,  as  the  carriage  drove  from  the  door. 
"We  will  end  our  month,  and  then,  if  you  don't 
mind,  go  on  to  Italy  and  join  the  Castlemaines." 

Mrs.  Devereux  would  like  it.  She  was  pretty 
certain  to  approve  of  Helen's  proposals,  having  a 
vast  opinion  of  the  young  lady's  talents. 

"  I  love  Italy,  and  so  does  Cordy,"  Mrs.  Dev 
ereux  said.  "  Wherever  you  fancy,  dear,  I  shall 
be  sure  to  content  myself." 

Helen  looked  at  her,  and  wondered  if  she 
should  ever  reach  a  similar  state  of  tranquillity. 
Project  her  soul  as  far  into  the  future  as  she 
might,  no  such  period  presented  itself  in  the  dull 
stretch  of  years.  So  far  from  it,  indeed,  that 
neither  as  regarded  the  present  nor  the  time  to 
come  could  she  find  any  satisfactory  reason  for 
being  called  on  to  exist.  But  this  was  silly  and 
sentimental,  and  she  would  not  think  such  trash. 
There  must  be  something  to  do  in  the  world — 
some  aim  wherewith  to  fill  up  her  heavy  hours ; 
and  she  would  search  till  she  discovered  it.  She 
had  no  cause  for  unhappiness,  nor  was  she  un 
happy — she  insisted  much  upon  this — only  she 
was  idle  and  useless,  and  so  time  dragged.  Yes, 
she  would  go  to  Italy,  and  join  Marian  and  Tal 
bot.  It  would  be  like  sitting  in  the  sunshine  to 
watch  their  happiness — able  to  reflect  that  it  was 
in  part  her  work. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   END. 

LET  us  go  back  also  to  Talbot  Castlemaine 
and  his  young  wife.  I  shall  only  tell  you  that 
Marian  had  known  almost  three  months  of  per 
fect  happiness.  To  more  than  one  of  us  this 
may  look  a  long  period  for  that  uncertain  boon 
to  be  the  portion  of  any  human  being,  but  Mari 
an  did  not  realize  this. 

There  is  nothing  prettier  or  more  poetical,  we 
all  aver,  than  wedded  bliss;  yet  if  any  luckless 
author  ventures  to  dwell  upon  such  a  season  in 
the  lives  of  his  characters,  we  invariably  sneer 
and  find  him  dull :  is  the  fault  his  or  ours,  I 
wonder  ?  I  have  no  mind  to  argue  the  question, 
or  elaborate  an  idyl  for  you  to  smile  at,  since  I 
have  only  to  do  with  Marian  and  her  husband, 
as  the  threads  of  their  lives  became  interwoven 
in  this  web  of  Fanny  St.  Simon's  existence.  »• 

They  wandered  about  Rome,  and  dreamed  in 
Naples;  they  spent  a  week  in  Sicily;  then  Tal 
bot  was  inspired  with  the  idea  of  showing  Mari 
an  the  Pyramids,  the  great  river  whose  very 
name  is  a  dream  of  romance,  the  broad  sweep  of 
the  desert,  and  all  the  man-els  which  six  months 
before  she  bad  thought  must  always  remain  a 
mere  beautiful  dream,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

So  they  hurried  back  to  Brindi.si,  and  sailed 
across  the  southern  sea,  and  lost  themselves 


94 

among  the  shadows  of  the  gigantic  past.  Then 
one  day  it  all  grew  tedious  to  Talbot— suddenly, 
as  any  sensation  came  upon  him.  He  knew 
that  he  had  fallen  out  of  the  clouds  and  was 
standing  on  the  common  earth,  while  a  newly 
risen  distance  seemed  to  extend  itself  between 
him  and  this  girl  who  had  found  her  heaven  in  the 
glory  of  his  changeful  eyes.  The  quiet  wearied 
him ;  the  isolation  became  oppressive ;  Marian's 
innocence  and  enthusiasm  a  bore.  He  felt  it 
better  they  should  return  to  the  ordinary  world, 
and  essay  the  life  opened  by  his  present  position, 
jf 'he  meant,  as  he  still  did,  to  preserve  Marian 
from  the  ill  effects  of  his  altered  mood. 

There  is  nothing  strange  in  this :  I  never  told 
you  that  the  man  was  changed.  He  had  grasped 
at  the  idea  of  a  new  and  higher  existence,  as  he 
had  always  grasped  eagerly  at  any  novel  sensa 
tion  ;  and  the  reality  palled  as  quickly  as  the  old 
pleasure  had  done.  It  was  all  natural  enough — 
horribly  natural.  Poor  Marian ! 

The  early  spring  found  them  at  Nice,  and 
there  Lady  Castlemaine  was  guilty  of  a  folly 
which  dragged  her  idyl  down  into  the  ordinary 
light  of  day,  and  left  her  treading  a  path  as  real 
and  commonplace  as  that  which  surrounds  most 
wedded  lives ;  her  folly  was  to  fall  ill. 

It  is  not  easy  to  see  how  she  could  be  blamed, 
or  have  avoided  the  misfortune,  but  even  in  his 
first  hours  of  anxiety — and  he  was  anxious — Tal 
bot  considered  it  a  folly  on  her  part.  He  fore 
saw  many  consequences  dangerous  to  her  peace 
which  might  arise  therefrom,  though  he  adhered 
to  his  intention  that  she  should  be  happy,  and 
thought  he  was  a  rather  hardly  used  individual 
in  having  personal  annoyances  to  render  his  part 
difficult. 

For  some  time  Marian  remained  very  ill — 
suffering  and  languid  during  several  weeks.  In 
her  entire  ignorance,  the  poor  child  had  not 
known  that  her  journey  to  the  East  was  a  great 
risk ;  she  was  not  even  aware  she  had  incurred 
danger  until  the  sharp,  sudden  pain  smote  her, 
and  the  new,  bewildering  hope  died  out  as  utterlv 
as  many  another  which  she  was  doomed  to  watch 
stricken  from  her  life. 

Until  her  illness,  Castlemaine  had  not  been 
made  acquainted  with  this  hope.  The  knowl 
edge  had  so  lately  reached  her,  the  idea  was  so 
wonderful  and  so  precious,  that  in  her  shy  joy 
she  deferred  telling  him  until  they  were  in  Italy 
again.  Then  there  was  nothing  to  tell. 

Talbot's  feelings  were  as  diverse  and  complex 
as  usual.  He  was  inclined  to  regard  children 
as  a  bore,  yet  he  felt  vexed  with  Marian  for 
having  cheated  him  of  an  heir  to  his  title,  and 
was  seriously  aggrieved  when  the  physicians 
warned  him  that  her  health  would  probably  re 
main  for  a  long  time  delicate.  He  blamed  her 
for  not  having  told  him — what  she  did  not  know 
herself;  blamed  her  for  not  knowing,  and  was 
furious  generally  with  doctors  and  nurses. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


He  was  very  kind,  but  the  sick-room  bored 
him  dreadfully,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  better  he 
told  her  candidly  that  he  thought  he  ought  not 
to  stay  shut  up  so  much.  Marian  agreed  to 
this;  was  afraid  she  had  been  selfish,  and  urged 
him  to  go  out  and  amuse  himself,  carefully  hid 
ing  her  loneliness  and  desolation  during  his  ab 
sence. 

Nice  was  so  stupid  a  hole,  too — she  might  at 
least  have  waited  to  get  back  to  Paris  before 
falling  ill.  Of  course  she  could  not  help  it,  poor 
child;  he  was  not  blaming  her,  only  railing  at 
circumstances  ;  but  it  was  a  deuced  bore.  And 
what  if  she  should  turn  sickly,  and  get  thin  and 
scraggy  ?  Talbot  felt  sorely  aggrieved.  Noth 
ing  to  amuse  one  in  Nice,  and  dangerous,  be 
witching  little  Monaco  within  easy  reach.  Dis 
traction  enough  to  be  found  there ;  any  number 
of  trains  daily  to  take  him  backward  and  for 
ward  ;  numerous  acquaintances  who  had  drifted 
thither  delighted  to  renew  their  companionship, 
and  the  bare  sight  of  the  familiar  green  tables 
and  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  croupiers  sounding  like 
music  in  his  ears ! 

At  Nice  Miss  Devereux  found  them  out.  She 
had  missed  them  on  first  coming  to  Italy  ;  then 
followed  their  Eastern  journey,  and  after  their 
return  she  was  prevented  joining  them  for  several 
weeks  by  her  step-mother's  illness.  When  she 
reached  Nice,  Marian  was  much  better — nearly 
recovered,  she  herself  said;  was  able  to  walk 
about,  to  drive  or  sit  in  the  soft  spring  sunshine; 
trying  to  be  happy  and  content  as  of  yore,  and 
feeling  vaguely  that  some  change  had  swept  over 
her  heaven. 

Miss  Devereux  soon  perceived  this;  she  learned 
how  Talbot  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time,  and 
was  not  slow  to  act. 

"How  much  longer  do  you  mean  to  stay 
here  ?"  she  asked  him  abruptly  one  day.  "  Mar 
ian  is  able  to  travel — wfiy  not  go  to  Florence  ? 
She  has  not  seen  it  yet,  and  the  journey  will  do 
her  good." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  answered;  "the 
winds  are  very  keen  there  just  at  this  time  of 
year — better  wait  a  little." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  wait,"  returned  Miss 
Devereux. 

"You  mean  Marian." 

"I  mean  what  I  said,"  she  interrupted  in  her 
straightforward  way,  though  she  made  her  man 
ner  pleasant,  and  her  voice  friendly  and  kind. 
"  See  here,  Talbot,  you  and  I  are  not  old  enough 
in  good  resolutions  to  run  risks.  You  ought  not 
to  go  to  Monaco  every  day ;  you  must  not  trifle 
with  what  was  so  engrossing  a  habit.  Don't  be 
cross ;  you  know  you  gave  me  the  right  to  scold 
you. " 

"And  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  take  the  trou 
ble,"  he  replied,  lazily,  not  in  the  least  offended 
— somewhat  amused  at  her  energy — just  a  little 
bored  at  the  subject  of  her  tirade. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"Go  to  Florence,"  she  urged  ;  "  stay  there  till 
Marian  is  entirely  recovered,  then  return  to  En 
gland.  The  ministry  will  go  out  before  long — 
there  will  be  an  election,  llemember  our  plans ; 
you  are  to  enter  Parliament  and  have  something 
to  do." 

He  ha'd  imagined  that ;  he  and  Miss  Dever- 
eux  had  talked  a  great  deal  about  the  project 
during  those  weeks  of  grand  resolutions  before 
his  marriage.  How  far  off  the  time  looked! 
how  dull  and  wearisome  those  noble  resolves  ap 
peared  !  He  was  not  shocked  as  he  admitted 
this  to  himself.  lie  had  his  customary  feeling 
of  personal  commiseration,  because  every  thing 
and  any  thing  so  soon  became  a  bore. 

"You  have  not  forgotten ?" she  asked. 

"Oh  no."  Very  drawlingly  uttered,  while 
through  his  half-closed  eyelids  he  watched  Miss 
Devereux's  pretty  hands  arranging  a  bunch  of 
violets,  and  thought  indolently  that  he  would  like 
to  kiss  them,  just  because  he  had  no  right. 

"Nor  changed  your  mind,  I  hope?" she  add 
ed,  interrogatively. 

"I  suppose  not;  but  really  there  is  no  hurry. 
My  dear  Miss  Uevereux,  this  is  such  heavenly 
weather,  and  it  makes  one  so  lazy.  Please  don't 
be  energetic  and  American." 

She  swept  the  flowers  out  of  her  lap  upon  the 
table,  with  one  of  her  impatient  movements. 

"I  don't  wish  to  jest,"  she-  said.  "If  you 
think  I  am  troublesome,  pray  say  so  at  once. 
You  gave  me  the  right  to  feel  an  interest  in  your 
affairs  and  to  talk  of  them  ;  if  you  wish  to  with 
draw  that  privilege,  be  frank,  and  do  it  in  so 
many  words." 

"But  I  don't  wish  to.  I  am  awfully  fond  of 
you,  and  want  your  good  opinion  and  advice ; 
but  I  am  lazy  to-day,  that's  all." 

"Then  I  shall  talk,  and  you  may  listen, "said 
she. 

"And  you'll  not  be  lazy  and  idle,  and  let  me 
look  at  you  ?  I  don't  know  why,  but  your  face 
is  altered !  You  are  a  little  thin,  but  it  is  be 
coming  ;  you  look  more  like  a  Greek  statue  than 
ever." 

"My  dear  friend,  don't  be  a  goose!"  she 
cried,  laughing,  though  she  felt  vexed.  "You 
would  try  to  flirt  with  a  barber's  block,  if  there 
was  no  other  semblance  to  womanhood  con 
venient.  But  you  don't  want  to  make  pretty 
speeches  to  me,  and  it's  a  bad  habit.  You  will 
fall  into  your  old  ways — and  oh !  remember  Mar 
ian." 

"By- the- way — yes;  suppose  we  take  her  out 
to  drive  ?" 

"You  will  not  be  serious;  you  will  get  away 
from  the  things  I  want  to  talk  about!" 

"But  you  mean  to  scold  me,  and  I  hate  to 
be  scolded." 

"I  am  afraid  for  you,  Talbot,"  she  continued. 
"I  know  you  love  Marian,  and  want  to  make 
her  happy.  I  know  you  were  serious  when  you 


planned  to  lead  a  new  life,  to  be  useful  and  good. 
Don't  give  up ;  don't  let  old  acquaintances  and 
habits  drag  you  back  into  the  old  ways.  It  will 
all  come  about  before  you  know  it,  unless  you 
are  careful." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said,  more 
gravely. 

"I  know  I  am  !  Oh,  Talbot,  if  any  unhappi- 
ness  should  befall  Marian  I  could  never  forgive 
myself." 

"But  there  will  not.  Bless  me,  I'm  quite  a 
paragon !  I  thought  you  would  have  praised 
me,  instead  of  lecturing." 

"I  don't  mean  to  lecture.  I  only  want  you 
to  be  true  to  yourself — to  the  life  you  have  un 
dertaken — to  the  aims  you  formed  last  autumn — 
to  Marian." 

"She  has  not  been  complaining,  I  am  sure — " 

"Of  course  not.  She  is  happy  yet;  but  I 
have  seen  in  these  few  days  just  what  you  are 
doing.  Her  illness  has  bored  you ;  you  have 
got  the  habit  of  going  to  Monaco ;  and  if  you 
yield  to  that  passion  for  gaming,  you  are  ruined. 
There — I  can't  help  it  if  you  are  vexed — my  con 
science  would  not  let  me  be  silent.  You  told  me, 
if  I  ever  saw  you  faltering  in  your  good  resolves, 
to  warn  you.  I  have  done  so.  Talbot,  Tulbot, 
don't  forget!"' 

"Indeed,  I  will  not.  You  are  the  best  of  sis 
ters  ;  that's  your  claim  on  both  Marian  and  me. 
I  am  as  steady  as  a  church.  I  had  promised  Do 
Sard  to  go  to  Monaco  to-day,  but  I  will  not. 
We'll  be  off  for  Florence  as  soon  as  you  and 
Marian  please.  Now,  own  that  I  am  not  a  bad 
sort,  and  that  you  are  not  disappointed  in  me." 

It  was  difficult  to  resist  the  grace  of  his  man 
ner,  the  persuasiveness  of  his  words ;  yet,  though 
in  a  measure  she  yielded  to  them,  Miss  Devereux 
could  not  forget  her  fears. 

"You  will  always  be  a  boy,"  said  she ;  "only, 
don't  be  a  bad  boy.  I've  no  wish  to  make  my 
self  disagreeable,  but  I  can't  sit  silent  and  see 
you  run  risks.  What  you  want  is  occupation  ; 
idleness  was  your  chief  enemy  in  the  old  days. 
Go  home  to  England.  Heaven  knows  there  is 
enough  for  a  man  of  vour  wealth  and  position  to 
do." 

"And  I  mean  to  —  don't  be  afraid!  Now, 
let's  go  to  Marian,  and  see  when  she  would  like 
to  be  off  for  Florence." 

His  very  good-nature  increased  her  anxiety ; 
she  would  rather  see  him  indignant  at  her  doubts ; 
it  would  at  least  have  shown  that  he  deceived 
himself.  But  she  tried  to  believe  all  might  yet 
end  well.  If  he  could  only  be  persuaded  back  to 
England,  and  find  something  to  do,  her  hopes  for 
him — those  hopes  which  in  the  past  autumn  had 
made  her  willing  Marian  should  become  his  wife 
— might  be  realized. 

So  the  next  week  the  Castlemaines  went  to 
Florence,  and  Miss  Devereux  and  her  mother 
and  old  Miss  Cordy  went  too.  Marian  was 


9G 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


much  better,  and  looking  prettier  than  ever. 
They  were  all  established  at  the  same  hotel,  and 
in  Helen's  companionship  Marian  had  less  time 
to  feel  lonely  when  Castlemaine  gradually  drifted 
back  to  the  habits  of  ordinary  husbands,  and  ab 
sented  himself  frequently.  She  was  not  silly, 
and  knew  this  must  be,  and  Miss  Devereux  knew 
it  also.  Talking  in  general  terms,  she  helped  Mar 
ian  to  see  that  it  was  inevitable,  and  nothing 
more  foolish  than  for  a  young  wife  to  sit  down 
and  fret  about  such  things. 

The  court  had  left  bella  Firenze,  but  it  was 
very  pleasant  there,  nevertheless,  and  quite  gay. 
Miss  Devereux  went  out  a  great  deal,  and  the 
Castlemaines  accompanied  her.  Marian  enjoyed 
society  only  moderately ;  but  she  tried  to  like  it, 
and  she  was  enough  admired  to  convince  Talbot 
that  she  had  got  her  good  looks  back.  He  even 
ventured  to  hope  marriage  would  not  prove  the 
bore  he  had  feared  it  might  a  little  time  previous. 
Roland  Spencer,  straying  about  Italy  to  find 
calm  and  forgetfulness  for  his  wounded  heart, 
came  to  Florence.  Both  Miss  Devereux  and 
Marian  liked  the  young  man,  though  the  pain 
and  bitterness  of  the  past  months  had  changed 
him  too  much  for  them  to  think  cf  regarding 
him  as  a  boy,  after  that  habit  of  Fanny  St.  Si 
mon's  which  had  proved  so  dangerous  to  his 
peace. 

He  visited  them  constantly;  was  their  cava 
lier  among  picture  -  galleries,  churches,  and  all 
the  sight  -  seeing  generally,  which  was  rather  a 
drag  on  Castlemaine,  in  spite  of  his  capability  of 
appreciating  beautiful  things.  His  absence  from 
these  excursions  cast  a  shadow  over  Marian's  en 
joyment,  but  she  did  not  murmur -even  to  her 
self.  He  knew  Italy  by  heart ;  it  was  natural 
enough  he  should  relegate  a  little  of  the  cicerone 
business  to  his  friends. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  a  pleasant  month  to  her ; 
not  like  the  ecstatic  dream  of  those  past  weeks  of 
married  life,  but  bringing  neither  fear  nor  dread 
for  the  future.  Miss  Devereux  was  less  tranquil, 
still  she  could  do  very  little ;  if  she  lectured  or 
persuaded  too  far,  Talbot  would  weary  of  her 
friendship,  and  she  lose  all  influence. 

Yet  during  the  last  ten  days  of  their  stay  there 
was  a  change  in  him — she  could  see  this ;  could 
see,  too,  that  something  of  importance  completely 
engrossed  him.  He  was  unusually  deferential  to 
her — attentive  to  Marian — taking  the  trouble  to 
account  for  his  absence.  So  she  knew  deception 
was  practiced,  the  worst  feature  of  which,  per 
haps,  might  be  that  he  tried  to  deceive  himself, 
and  meant  to  keep  to  his  good  resolutions.  Miss 
Devereux  was  seriously  alarmed. 

"  Lady  Castlemaine  seems  happy,"  Roland 
Spencer  said  to  her  one  day.  "What  a  lovely 
little  creature,  and  clever  too,  shy  and  retiring 
as  she  is ! " 

"More  charming  because  she  really  does  not 
know  she  is  clever,"  returned  Miss  Devereux. 


"A  pleasant  contrast  to  the  rest  of  us  conceited 
wretches.  I  don't  mean  you,  for  you  really  have 
a  great  deal  of  genuine  modesty  left." 

He  laughed ;  but  he  did  not  color  in  the  sen 
sitive  way  he  would  have  done  when  Fanny 
St.  Simon  indulged  in  such  speeches.  He  per 
ceived  himself  how  much  older  he  had  grown, 
and,  unlike  most  men,  it  grieved  him  to  see  his 
youth  going  away. 

"Sir  Talbot  is  a  fine  fellow,"  he  went  on, 

'wonderfully   attractive;  yet   somehow  I   am 

sorry  for  that  little  wife — she  will  have  trouble 

yet !     I  am  not  wise,  but  any  body  who  runs 

may  read  his  character."  » 

These  two  had  grown  exceedingly  confiden 
tial,  though  Roland  kept  his  one  secret ;  it  was 
too  precious  in  its  horrible  suffering  to  be  con 
fided  even  to  the  warm  friendship  he  felt  for 
Miss  Devereux. 

"I  hope  not,"  she  said,  earnestly;  "I  had  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  that  marriage,  and  should 
never  forgive  myself  if  matters  went  wrong." 

"Hum !"  said  Roland.  "She  loved  the  man, 
and  he  had  a  craze  for  her.  My  dear  Miss 
Devereux,  you  could  not  have  changed  any 
thing,  whatever  the  circumstances  were." 

"I  want  them  to  go  to  England,"  she  contin 
ued.  "Talbot  ought  to  have  something  to  do 
— some  real  occupation.  I  am  uneasy  about 
him.  These  two  are  very  dear  to  me.  I  don't 
know  of  any  thing  special  that  I  dread ;  but  1 
am  troubled," 

He  was  silent ;  there  were  things  he  could 
have  rendered  plain,  but  ho  shrunk  from  can 
vassing  the  man  who  had  treated  him  with  such 
generous  hospitality. 

"  Do  you  go  much  to  the  cercle  ?"  she  asked. 

"Very  little;  there  is  slight  amusement  ex 
cept  high  play,  and  I  never  touch  cards — at  least, 
to  risk  money." 

"  But  Talbot  plays  ?" 

"Not  often,  I  think — " 

"Then,  what  is  engrossing  him?  Mr.  Spen 
cer,  there  is  trouble  near — I  feel  it.  I  can  not 
tell  you  how  anxious  I  am.  Can  you  counsel 
me?" 

"No  ;  but  if  you  have  any  influence,  I  would 
advise  you  to  urge  their  return  to  England, "he 
replied,  gravely. 

Marian  entered  at  the  moment,  and  the  conver 
sation  dropped.  That  night  Castlemaine  dined 
out — a  man's  affair,  he  said,  and  lamented  the 
necessity.  It  was  he  who  had  urged  Spencer  to 
console  the  feminines  during  his  absence.  Mar 
ian  was  tired,  and  they  were  to  remain  at  home 
all  the  evening ;  but  the  fates  decreed  other 
wise,  so  far  as  Miss  Devereux  was  concerned. 
Rather  late  some  friends  called,  and  insisted  on 
dragging  her  off  to  see  the  dress  rehearsal  of  a 
new  opera — at  least,  the  closing  acts  of  it. 

In  a  box  almost  opposite  that  in  which  Miss 
Devereux  and  her  party  sat  was  a  beautiful 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


97 


Russian,  whom  Helen  had  seen  at  Naples  —  a 
woman  who,  though  still  young  and  belonging 
to  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  her  country, 
had  lately  put  herself  outside  the  pale  of  pardon 
possible  even  to  a  woman  supported,  as  she  was, 
by  beauty,  wealth,  and  position.  I  have  no  need 
to  relate  her  history — it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
my  story.  It  could  avail  nothing  to  unfold  the 
details  of  a  scandalous  chronicle  which  caused 
the  beholder,  when  regarding  that  lovely  creat 
ure,  with  her  golden  hair  and  marvelous  eyes,  to 
wonder  how  any  human  shape  so  perfect  could 
hold  a  soul  so  persistently  vile  and  determined 
to  choose  the  evil. 

There  she  sat  throned  in  her  loveliness,  and 
as  Helen  looked  she  saw  Talbot  Castlemaine 
seated  a  little  behind  the  lady,  partially  hidden 
by  the  draperies  of  the  loge. 

Miss  Devereux  understood  every  thing  now, 
and  the  dolorous  pang  wrung  her  heart.  She 
knew  that  Castlemaine  had  yielded  to  a  second 
fatal  weakness  of  his  nature.  It  was  not  only 
the  taste  for  gaming  which  had  revived,  but  the 
old  stories  she  had  formerly  refused  more  than 
half  to  credit  were  to  find  a  repetition. 

"There's  Madame  de  Warloff,"  said  the  lady 
by  Helen's  side.  "Have  you  heard  she  has 
been  here  ten  days  ?  The  last  awful  business 
is  so  recent  that  she  has  been  living  very  quiet 
ly.  They  do  say  the  police  forbade  her  driving 
in  the  Cascine :  people  are  only  just  finding  out 
she  is  in  town." 

"Do  you  know  who  that  is  in  the  box  with 
her?"  asked  her  husband.  "He  keeps  in  the 
background — no  wonder.  It  will  not  be  a  se 
cret  long,  Miss  Devereux.  We  men  are  aware 
that  he  is  the  fair  countess's  constant  visitor." 

These  were  a  pair  of  gay  young  French  peo 
ple  belonging  to  a  set  Marian  did  not  visit ;  it 
was  not  necessary  to  caution  them.  Helen 
turned  sick  with  dread.  She  was  too  pure-mind 
ed  in  her  maidenhood  to  indulge  the  fears  which 
must  have  suggested  themselves  to  a  married 
woman.  She  only  thought  that  if  Talbot  began 
to  flirt,  there  was  an  end  to  Marian's  peace.  It 
did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  would  go  to  the 
length  of  actual  infidelity;  but  it  was  horrible 
to  think  of  his  hanging  about  a  woman  like  this, 
of  yielding  to  a  caprice  which  must  bring  such 
misery  to  his  wife  if  a  whisper  reached  her.  Be 
sides  the  present  danger,  there  was  that  for  the 
future.  Talbot  was  slipping  away  from  his  good 
resolves.  No  safety — no  hope ;  the  blow  must 
strike  Marian  some  day ! 

Helen  spent  a  sleepless  night,  wondering  if  it 
would  be  possible  to  do  any  thing,  and  seeing  no 
way.  But  the  next  morning  Talbot  said, 

"Suppose  we  go  over  to  Veniqe,  Marian. 
What  say  you,  Miss  Devereux  ?" 

Helen's  heart  gave  a  great  bound  of  joy.     He 
recognized  his  peril ;  he  was  honest  enough  and 
brave  enough  to  want  to  escape  from  it. 
7 


"  I  say  it  is  a  charming  idea,"  she  answered. 
"I  am  tired  of  Florence !  Marian,  do  let  us  go 
at  once  while  this  man  is  in  the  mood." 

Marian  was  pleased,  and  began  to  dream  of 
the  wonderful  piazza  and  the  moonlight  on  the 
broad  lagoons,  and  to  wish  that  she  and  Talbot 
could  be  alone  there,  then  to  check  the  thought 
as  selfish  and  silly. 

Talbot  was  always  in  haste  when  any  new 
project  seized  him,  so  Miss  Devereux  felt  no  sur 
prise  when  he  proposed  their  setting  off  on  the 
following  day.  Roland  Spencer  was  invited  to 
join  the  party.  Miss  Cordy  and  Mrs.  Devereux 
were  mildly  acquiescent,  as  usual.  Talbot's  man 
went  on  to  choose  the  most  eligible  rooms  in  the 
most  comfortable  hotel.  Two  days  later  they 
were  floating  down  the  grand  canal  in  a  barca, 
and  Helen's  good  spirits  were  only  equaled  by 
Castlemaine's. 

But  after  this  he  remained  very  little  with  the 
rest.  He  told  Marian  so  much  society  rather 
wearied  him,  though  he  would  not  hear  of  short 
ening  their  sojourn.  She  went  about  with  the 
others,  but  all  enjoyment  was  gone,  and  for  the 
first  time  she  began  really  to  suffer. 

Castlemaine  staid  out  late  at  night,  too,  but 
she  concealed  from  him  the  weary  vigils  she  kept 
during  his  absence.  She  offered  no  complaint 
or  expostulation  ;  she  accused  herself  rather  than 
him,  fearing  that  she  was  tiresome  and  unreason 
able.  She  never  doubted  his  word  when  he  said 
he  frequented  a  knot  of  men-friends  he  had  en 
countered — gruff,  women-hating  old  bachelors, 
he  averred.  She  was  glad  he  should  escape 
boredom,  kept  her  counsel,  and  had  always  ex 
cuses  to  offer  for  him  to  Miss  Devereux  and  the 
rest  of  the  group.  But  her  woman's  lot  had 
overtaken  her :  there  were  "silent  tears  to  weep," 
though  as  yet  she  was  mercifully  spared  any  sus 
picion  that  her  idol  was  only  common  clay. 

Ten  days  like  these,  then  Miss  Devereux  spoke 
out  to  Roland  Spencer  the  suspicions  which  had 
become  freshly  roused  in  her  mind. 

"There  is  something  wrong ;  perhaps  it  is  only 
that  he  is  bored.  Mr.  Spencer,  I  found  out  what 
the  matter  was  at  Florence,  though  you  did  keep 
silence.  I  respected  Talbot  for  coming  away. 
May  be  now  he  is  only  a  little  wearied  by  his  own 
attempt  at  self-control ;  he  is  not  used  to  it.  We 
must  not  be  too  hard." 

They  were  drifting  down  one  of  the  smaller 
canals  in  a  gondola,  going  in  search  of  some 
carved  gewgaws  at  a  brie  a  brae  shop,  where 
with  to  surprise  Marian,  for  they  were  never 
weary  of  petting  her. 

As  Helen  Devereux  spoke  their  gondola  came 
to  a  stand-still ;  they  were  obliged  to  wait  while 
a  heavily-laden  barge  made  room  for  them  to 
pass.  The  gondoliers  shouted ;  the  bargemen 
howled.  Helen  leaned  her  head  out  of  the  little 
window  and  looked  about,  as  Roland  seemed  in 
no  mood  to  talk.  They  were  stopped  just  under 


98 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


the  shadows  of  a  vast  old  palace.  Miss  Devereux 
glanced  up  to  a  balcony,  shaded  by  crimson  cur 
tains,  on  the  first  floor,  and  saw  the  beautiful 
Russian  woman.  By  her  side  was  Talbot  Cas- 
tlemaine. 

She  uttered  a  little  cry ;  Spencer  followed  the 
direction  of  her  eyes ;  the  boat  floated  on. 

"  Did  you  know  ?"  she  asked. 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  what  am  I  to  do?"  she 
demanded. 

"  Nothing  ;  you  are  powerless." 

She  was  so  shaken  and  troubled  that  he  pitied 
her,  but  he  had  told  the  truth ;  she  was  powerless. 

"If  you  reproach  him,  you  will  lose  all  influ 
ence,"  Roland  added.  "  My  dear  Miss  Dever 
eux,  it  is  useless  to  deceive  yourself;  our  poor 
little  friend  has  a  weary  future  before  her :  that 
man  will  never  change." 

The  end  came  quickly.  Castlemaine  went  to 
Trieste  for  a  day;  the  morning  after  he  came 
back  he  proposed  that  they  should  depart,  and  a 
move  to  Milan  was  made  the  same  evening. 

Before  many  days  Helen  Devereux  read  in  a 
morning  journal  an  account  of  a  duel  between  a 
Neapolitan  and  a  noted  Englishman ;  neither  of 
the  names  was  given.  The  paragraph  went  on 
to  add  that  a  famous  Russian  had  been  the  cause. 

It  cost  Talbot  Castlemaine  a  good  many  hun 
dred  pounds  to  keep  the  names  from  appearing 
in  print,  but  he  succeeded,  though  there  were 
few  people  except  his  wife  who  did  not  know  his 
part  in  the  affair. 

He  had  wearied  quickly  enough  of  the  Mus 
covite  tigress  with  the  angel-face ;  but  the  harm 
had  been  done.  He  had  taken  the  first  open 
backward  step,  and  knew  in  his  own  soul  that 
his  former  wise  resolves  had  flown  like  chaff  be 
fore  the  wind.  This  acknowledgment  left  the 
case  more  hopeless,  and  it  is  because  it  had  this 
fatal  effect  that  I  have  set  the  matter  down,  that 
you  may  understand  just  where  this  man  stood 
when  he  again  comes  into  my  narrative. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    REPRIEVE. 

WEEK  by  week  during  the  spring,  each  time 
Helen  Devereux  opened  a  newspaper  or  received 
a  letter  from  Paris,  she  expected  to  meet  news 
of  the  marriage  of  Gregory  Alleyne  and  Fanny 
St.  Simon.  Though  neither  knew  of  the  other's 
expectation,  the  same  thought  was  in  Roland 
Spencer's  mind  ;  but  the  news  did  not  come. 

The  Castlemaines  went  to  England;  Miss 
Devereux  and  her  mother  removed  northward 
also ;  Roland  Spencer  drifted  away  upon  a  soli 
tary  pilgrimage ;  the  companionship  of  the  past 
weeks  ended. 

Fanny  St.  Simon  was  not  married ;  there  had 


been  a  reprieve  granted  her;  she  called  it  so, 
and  accepted  it  gladly,  since  there  was  no  dan 
ger  of  harm  to  her  plans :  from  these  she  never 
for  an  instant  wavered.  But  there  was  a  suffi 
cient  reason  why  the  marriage  should  be  defer 
red,  and  she  received  it  with  a  quiet  exultation 
which  irritated  St.  Simon  almost  beyond  decency, 
though  he  had  to  bear  it  as  best  he  might. 

Toward  the  end  of  February,  just  as  St.  Si 
mon  was  hoping  that  matters  would  reach  a  cli 
max,  and  Alleyne  had  spoken  to  him  wishing 
for  a  speedy  marriage,  news  of  a  very  sorrowful 
nature  came.  Alleyne's  only  sister  had  died 
suddenly,  and  it  was  a  sad  grief  to  him,  for  he 
had  loved  her  dearly.  The  next  steamer  brought 
more  tidings.  Trouble  had  arisen  between  the 
executors  of  the  lady's  will  .and  her  husband. 
The  man  had  never  behaved  well,  and  was  now 
trying  to  deal  unfairly  by  his  step-children,  for 
Alleyne's  sister  had  been  a  widow  when  she 
made  the  unfortunate  match  which  clouded  the 
later  years  of  her  life  so  hopelessly  that  only  the 
sunshine  of  a  higher  sphere  than  this  could  sweep 
the  mists  away. 

It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  Alleyne  should 
go  at  once  to  America;  he  recognized  this,  but 
it  was  Fanny  who  put  the  matter  into  words. 

She  had  been  very  kind  during  the  first  days 
of  his  trouble — sympathizing,  thoughtful — a  great 
comfort,  he  told  her;  and  she  smiled  to  think 
how  odd  it  was  that  she  should  be  a  comfort  to 
any  one,  and.  of  all  men,  to  Gregory  Alleyne. 

"You  must  go  to  America, "she  said,  after 
reading  the  letters  he  brought,  "and  you  must 
go  immediately." 

"And  must  I  go  alone?"  he  asked. 

She  took  his  hand  between  hers,  and  answered, 
"I  must  even  say  yes  to  that.  Think  what 
all  your  family  and  friends  would  say.  We 
could  never  explain  our  motives ;  you  would  be 
considered  utterly  heartless.  I  can  not  have  you 
ill  spoken  of. " 

"My  poor  Florence  would  understand,"  he 
said,  sadly.  "I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  Fanny 
— not  entirely  from  selfish  reasons.  I  don't  be 
lieve  in  lengthened  engagements." 

"The  delay  is  unavoidable,"  she  replied. 
"  Perhaps  it  is  better ;  we  have  not  known  one 
another  long.  We  shall  get  more  acquainted  in 
our  letters — " 

"Our  wedding  could  be  very  private,"  he 
broke  in. 

"That  would  not  alter  the  fact:  the  blame 
would  come  all  the  same.  No— I  am  right; 
trust  me.  Besides — besides — don't  think  me 
selfish !  I  would  gladly  be  with  you,  help  you, 
bear  your  trouble.  But  I'm  a  little  supersti 
tious;  it  would  seem  an  evil  omen.  Then,  I 
have  a  horrible  fear  of  the  sea — don't  smile — I 
can  give  you  no  idea  of  it." 

"  But  you  do  not  mean  that  fear  to  banish  you 
always  from  America  ?" 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"  No,  of  course  not ;  but  to  have  that  dread 
and  this  great  sorrow  for  you  hanging  over  our 
wedding-day! — I  can't — I  can't;  it  is  not  right. 
We  must  wait — we  must." 

In  many  ways  it  would  be  better,  and  he 
yielded  to  Fanny's  plea  and  to  his  sense  of  what 
was  fitting.  But  he  was  very  anxious  to  have 
the  time  for  the  marriage  arrive.  He  was 
more  and  more  satisfied  of  the  wisdom  of  his 
choice ;  he  enjoyed  her  society  with  constantly 
increasing  pleasure ;  possessing  that,  he  could 
be  quiet  and  content.  Still,,  there  were  a  good 
many  solitary,  restless  hours,  without  any  defined 
cause,  and  he  told  himself  these  would  end  when 
Fanny  became  his  wife.  It  was  not  that  there 
were  any  remains  of  weakness  in  his  heart — he 
refused  to  admit  the  possibility — but  the  former 
love  and  pain  had  left  shadows  behind ;  they 
would  all  disappear  when  his  life  brightened  un 
der  new  ties. 

So  it  was  decided  by  the  betrothed  pair  that 
Alleyne  should  undertake  his  journey  alone. 
He  would  be  gone  three  months :  between  at 
tending  to  the  suit  which  threatened  on  behalf 
of  his  sister's  children,  and  arranging  some  bus 
iness  of  his  own,  he  could  not  set  a  less  term  for 
his  absence. 

Three  months — how  pleasant  they  looked  to 
Fanny !  three  months  of  entire  freedom. 

"March,  April,  May — why,  it  will  be  sum 
mer!"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  which  struck  his  ear 
like  a  tone  of  regret,  though  it  came  from  the 
very  fullness  of  content. 

"It  is  so  pleasant  to  think  you  will  miss  me," 
he  replied.  "And  when  I  come  back,  Fanny — 
then  shall  I  have  my  wife  ?" 

"You  shall  ask  me  that  question  as  early  in 
the  autumn  as  you  please — not  before,"  she  said. 
"  I  can  not  well  say  all  I  think ;  it  would  sound 
foolish ;  but  I'll  write  it.  You  will  be  punctual 
about  your  letters  ?  I  hate  waiting." 

"  You  will  probably  have  quite  as  many  as  yon 
can  easily  read,"  he  answered.  "The  weather 
is  very  fine ;  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  a  comfort 
able  voyage,  though  it  is  early." 

His  words  quickened  a  new  thought  into  ac 
tion  in  Fanny  St.  Simon's  mind — not  roused  it, 
for  she  knew  now  that  it  had  been  vaguely  haunt 
ing  her  ever  since  the  project  of  his  departure 
came  under  discussion.  But  the  thought  rose 
clear  and  distinct,  and  grew  of  immense  impor 
tance. 

Suppose  any  thing  should  happen  to  him ! — she 
put  it  to  herself  in  this  fashion.  The  weather 
was  always  capricious  at  this  season  of  the  year ; 
a  sea  voyage  had  its  dangers.  If  any  thing 
should  happen  to  him !  She  was  not  his  wife  ; 
she  had  no  legal  claim.  If  by  her  refusal  to  al 
low  the  wedding  to  take  place  she  lost  all  hope 
of  his  fortune !  There  was  nothing  left  for  her 
in  this  world  except  money,  or  rather  the  ease 
and  power  which  money  brings ;  if  she  should 


lose  that  hope !  What  would  be  the  fortune  she 
had  dreamed  of  early  in  the  winter,  even  if  real 
ized,  compared  to  the  millions  this  man  possessed, 
and  which  of  late  she  had  regarded  as  certain  to 
gild  her  days  ? 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Fanny?"  he 
asked,  suddenly.  "  Don't  look  so  grave." 

"I  was  thinking  that  the  summer  looks  very 
far  off,"  she  said,  softly.  "Never  mind;  don't 
let's  talk  of  it.  I  mean  to  be  very  brave,  I  as 
sure  you." 

This  woman  loved  him  ;  he  was  really  and 
honestly  dear  to  her ;  it  was  a  sweet  thought  to 
his  solitary  heart. 

"I  have  a  few  days  yet,"  he  said.  "I  can 
not  sail  before  next  week." 

"So  soon?"  she  cried.  "Yes,  yes — don't 
say  a  word !  Well,  the  sooner  you  go,  the  soon 
er  you  will  come  back.  We'll  at  least  enjoy 
these  last  days  all  we  can.  Thank  goodness,  you 
will  have  no  business  to  interfere  while  on  this 
side  the  water.  I  hate  business  !  I  remember 
when  uncle  went  away  last  year,  he  made  the 
last  days  torture  to  me  by  his  talk — explaining 
jus);  what  we  had,  arranging  his  will,  settling 
every  thing,  he  said,  so  that  in  case  he  never 
came  back —  Oh,  it  was  horrible!"  she  broke 
off,  with  a  shudder. 

Alleyne  stood  reflecting  for  a  moment. 

"I  have  very  little  to  do — nothing  to  bother 
us ;  but  I  must  attend  to  certain  matters.  111 
go  now,  Fanny.  May  I  come  to  dinner  ?" 

"I  should  like  to  see  you  venture  to  dine  any 
where  else!"  she  said.  "But  why  must  you 
go?" 

"  Only  to  arrange  what  you  hate — a  little  busi 
ness — and  be  done."  He  paused,  then  added 
seriously,  "Fanny,  I  shall  come  back — someway 
I  have  no  fear  of  that ;  but  it  is  only  wise  to  be 
prudent.  I  am  a  very  rich  man  ;  you  have  nev 
er  let  me  speak  of  this — " 

"And  there's  no  need  now,  certainly,"  she  in 
terrupted.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it." 

"  Only  this  :  if — if  any  thing  happens  to  me, 
Fanny,  I  can  trust  you  to  use  this  fortune  like 
the  stewardship  I  feel  it ;  and  I  must  arrange  all 
that  before  I  go." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  cruel?"  she  cried,  turn 
ing  away  after  one  tender,  reproachful  glance. 

"Wait,  Fanny  :  you  don't  understand." 

"And  I  don't  want  to!"  she  exclaimed,  ve 
hemently.  "Why  do  you  choose  a  time  like 
this  to  talk  about  your  wealth  ?  What  is  that  to 
me  ?  I  don't  care  if  it  be  a  groat  or  a  million, 
especially  just  now.  I  think  you  are  unkind — 
very  unkind !" 

"  My  dearest  Fanny — " 

"Am  I  really?"  she  broke  in,  her  face  grow 
ing  sunny  again — "really  and  truly,  Gregory  ?" 

"  You  know  that — you  must  know  it,"  he  said. 

She  had  come  close  to  him  ;  he  passed  his  arm 
about  her  waist  and  made  her  sit  beside  him. 


100 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"Then,  if  I  am,  don't  say  a  word  more  of  all 
those  horrid  matters.  Why,  you  give  me  a  sort 
of  a  chill!" 

"  Only  listen  for  a  moment." 

"No,  no!"  She  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears 
in  a  childish  way,  laughing,  yet  apparently  half 
afraid.  But  when  she  saw  how  serious  he 
looked,  she  became  grave,  and  added,  "I  beg 
your  pardon  !  I  am  very  silly — you  took  me  by 
surprise.  I  will  listen ;  only  don't  say  any  thing 
that  suggests  such  awful  possibilities  in  regard  to 
your  journey." 

"I  merely  want  to  talk  to  you  about  what  it  is 
right  for  me  to  do,"  he  said.  "This  fortune — " 

"Ah,  Gregory." 

"One  instant — you  will  see  then." 

She  sighed,  but  motioned  him  to  continue. 
She  would  have  made  the  loveliest  possible  study 
for  a  picture  of  resignation. 

"It  is  a  great  trust,"  he  continued,  "and 
must  be  wisely  employed." 

Her  face  changed  again.  She  laid  her  hand 
on  his,  murmuring, 

"Forgive  me;  I  begin  to  understand." 

"Papers  which  I  shall  leave  will  show  j-ou 
what  my  plans  are,"  he  said;  "what  projects  I 
had  traced  for  the  future.  All  these  can,  and,  if 
necessary,  I  should  wish  to  be,  modified  by  your 
judgment ;  for  the  power  and  responsibility,  in 
the  event  of  my  death,  must  rest  with  you." 

She  drew  away  the  hand  he  had  clasped,  and 
shaded  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  think  me  cruel?"  he  asked. 
"You  see  now  that  it  is  necessary  I  should 
speak  of  these  things." 

"Yes,"she  answered,  slowly.  "Agreat  trust. 
"Well,  I  must  bear  this  too." 

She  was  neither  shrinking  nor  eager.  He  had 
pointed  out  the  right  course,  and  she  was  ready 
to  follow  it,  putting  aside  her  own  pain  at  the 
possibility  suggested  by  his  words ;  her  manner 
as  she  listened  implied  all  this.  He  had  never 
admired  or  respected  her  more  than  at  this  mo 
ment.  He  felt  a  warm  tenderness,  too,  for  her 
gentle  heart.  She  looked  very  pale,  but  calm — 
unnaturally  so,  he  thought — and  knew  that  she 
was  making  a  great  effort  to  subdue  her  feel 
ings. 

After  he  had  fully  explained  his  intentions,  he 
said, 

"Now  we  understand  one  another  thoroughlv. 
When  I  come  back  this  evening,  every  thing  will 
be  settled  and  my  mind  at  rest." 

"At  least  this  is  a  comfort,"  she  replied,  smil 
ing  sadly.  "  Perhaps  mine  will  be,  too,  if  I  can 
get  rid  of  all  the  nervous  fancies  your  talk  has 
conjured  up." 

So  then  he  did  his  best  to  comfort  her,  and 
spoke  of  his  return  and  all  the  events  which  were 
to  follow;  and  Fanny  told  him  that  he  had  suc 
ceeded  in  his  efforts  at  consolation. 

He  came  to  dinner,  and  the  Tortoise  warmed 


into  unusual  animation  at  his  appearance :  he 
was  a  great  favorite  with  her. 

"I  wondered  why  you  didn't  come,"  she  said. 
"I've  learned  a  new  stitch  in  crochet,  and  want 
ed  to  show  it  to  you." 

"Perhaps  you  will  let  me  see  it  now,"  he 
answered. 

"Yes;  only  may  be  I  have  forgotten  it.  I 
do  forget  things;  but  Fanny  will  remember," 
she  said,  plaintively.  "I  had  it  all  in  my  head 
this  morning,  if  you  had  only  come  then.  Where 
have  you  been  all  day  ?" 

"Busy  with  a  very  tiresome  individual,"  he 
replied. 

' '  Lor ! "  cried  the  Tortoise.  ' '  You  don't  mean 
St.  Simon  ?" 

It  was  impossible  to  avoid  laughing ;  but  she 
looked  so  serious  and  puzzled  that  he  hastened 
to  explain. 

"It  was  a  lawyet;  lawyers  are  always  tire 
some  creatures,  you  know." 

"Are  they  the  men  that  sell  one's  furniture 
and  things  ?"  asked  the  Tortoise.  "Oh  no — 
they've  another  name,  something  like  seraph, 
though  it's  not  that." 

"  Sheriff,  perhaps." 

"I  dare  say;"  and  the  Tortoise  shivered. 
Probably  she  had  many  times  made  acquaint 
ance  with  members  of  that  class  in  the  course 
of  her  long  pilgrimage  by  St.  Simon's  side. 
"  So  you've  seen  a  lawyer!" 

Fanny,  just  entering,  caught  the  woi'd  and 
stopped.  He  moved  forward  to  meet  her. 

"My  mind  is  quite  at  rest,"  he  said,  noticing 
a  look  of  pain  in  her  face.  "  I  have  done  what 
was  right  and  best — put  accident  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  Dear  girl,  don't  be  troubled ;  we  will  talk 
no  more  about  it.  I  shall  send  you  some  pa 
pers  in  the  morning  which  you  may  never  need 
to  read ;  if  you  should,  you  will  not  be  at  a  loss 
how  to  act,  for  every  thing  will  be  in  your 
hands." 

The  news  of  his  departure  came  out  during 
dinner,  and  St.  Simon  was  paralyzed  at  Fanny's 
madness  in  not  accompanying  him.  The  Tor 
toise  grew  tearful,  and  sniffed  a  great  deal. 

"Dear,  dear!"  sighed  she,  "every  body  goes 
away.  I  don't  like  it." 

"You  should  emulate  Miss  Fanny's  compos 
ure,"  said  St.  Simon,  with  a  sneer. 

Fanny  looked  a  very  pretty  martyr,  and  Al- 
leyne  eagerly  explained  why  she  allowed  him  to 
go  alone ;  he  could  not  have  her  blamed. 

"None  of  my  business,  of  course, "  returned 
St.  Simon,  and  had  hard  work  not  to  give  way 
to  his  temper. 

He  made  amends  for  his  enforced  self-control, 
when  the  guest  was  gone,  and  this  was  the  oc 
casion  of  his  flinging  decency  to  the  winds. 
Fanny  allowed  him  to  rave  unheeded. 

"You're  a  fool !"  said  he  at  last.  "  Suppose 
the  steamer  should  go  down,  and  he  with  it?" 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


101 


• '  Haven't  I  the  silver  mine  and  my  affection 
ate  uncle  ?"  she  asked. 

"To  run  any  risk!"  he  continued.  "Wby, 
the  mine  will  never  bring  a  quarter  of  his  fort 
une.  I  did  think  you  had  some  sense.  I  am 
utterly  disgusted.  It  is  not  too  late:  tell  him 
you  can't  let  him  go  alone ;  tell  him — " 

"Don't  waste  your  invention  finding  eloquent 
outbursts,  St.  Simon.  I  don't  think,  with  all 
your  craft,  you  could  have  done  as  well  as  I." 

"I  can't  say  I  perceive  the  evidences  of  your 
great  wisdom,"  he  snarled. 

"You'll  ruin  your  sweet  voice,"  said  Fanny.' 
"  St.  Simon,  if  I  were  as  wicked  as  you,  I  should 
pray  to  my — no,  your — friend,  the  devil,  that  the 
steamer  might  go  down,  and  this  man  with  it." 

"Now  what —  I  do  think  you  have  gone 
mad.  What  is  your  riddle  ?" 

"None !  Gregory  Alleyne  is  a  prudent  man, 
and  has  made  his  will.  If  he  were  to  be  drowned, 
the  silly  mad  woman,  your  niece,  would  be  the 
inheritor  of  his  fortune,  that  is  all.  Good-night, 
St.  Simon.  Don't  lose  your  sleep  on  account  of 
my  folly." 

St.  Simon  at  first  felt  more  angry  than  ever 
that  he  had  gone  into  a  passion  when  there  was 
no  cause ;  but  this  soon  yielded  to  his  apprecia 
tion  of  Fanny's  skill  and  tact.  He  went  to  bed 
in  a  comfortable  frame  of  mind,  and  slept  as 
tranquilly  as  if  his  conscience  had  never  borne 
a  weight  and  his  brain  were  free  from  either  plot 
or  scheme. 

Yet  he  had  enough  on  his  hands  at  this  time 
— enough  to  exercise  to  the  utmost  all  his  astute 
mental  powers,  whatever  their  effect  on  that  in 
ward  monitor  which  St.  Simon  would  have  con 
sidered  it  a  weakness  to  heed. 

He  was  playing  a  dangerous  game;  but  he 
saw  his  way  clearly,  and  never  hesitated  for  an 
instant.  He  possessed  two  confidential  associates 
just  where  they  were  needed — the  man  who  had 
the  sole  direction  at  the  mines,  and  the  director 
in  New  York,  who  had  in  reality  the  charge  of 
all  important  matters.  Whatever  came,  these 
three  were  certain  to  win ;  St.  Simon  retaining 
the  lion's  share,  and  ruling  the  'others  by  secrets 
which  left  them  at  his  mercy.  So  it  was  not  dif 
ficult  to  keep  back  sums  of  money — to  defer,  to 
borrow,  to  have  a  double  set  of  books,  if  neces 
sary,  for  the  benefit  of  the  prime  movers  in  the 
concern.  There  was  a  secret  between  St.  Simon 
and  the  agent  at  the  mines  which  was  not  even 
known  to  the  trusted  director  in  New  York.  If 
a  fear  which  these  two  shared  was  not  realized, 
then  there  was  no  doubt  of  ultimate  fortune  for 
company  and  stockholders  alike.  A  few  months 
would  decide.  If  the  fears  that  St.  Simon  and  the 
agent  held  proved  correct,  at  least  they  would  not 
lose,  whoever  else  might  be  ruined. 

St.  Simon  believed  he  could  play  his  part  too, 
in  case  the  worst  threatened,  so  that  he  should 
escape  without  suspicion.  It  might  be  requisite 


to  sacrifice  his  tool  in  New  York,  but  he  would 
have  no  scruples  about  this.  He  should  not  fail. 
He  held  the  threads  of  the  web  securely  in  his 
own  hands ;  he  could  not  fail. 

To  show  prudence  in  his  expenditure  when 
large  sums  of  money  were  passing  through  his 
hands,  portions  of  which  could  cling  to  his  fin 
gers  unsuspected,  was  out  of  the  question.  If 
the  mines  continued  reliable,  these  could  easSy 
be  replaced ;  if  failure  came,  then,  in  the  ruin 
which  awaited  the  confidential  director,  these 
matters  would  go  to  load  his  burden  still  heavier. 

No,  St.  Simon  could  not  be  prudent ;  he  could 
neither  let  cards  alone  nor  check  himself  in  other 
vices  which  I  need  not  particularize.  Madame 

de  M still  reigned  in  her  elegant  hotel,  and 

there  were  others  to  claim  a  share  of  the  spoil, 
with  a  talent  for  spending  it  equal  to  St.  Simon's 
own. 

But  every  thing  prospered  with  him.  It  was 
the  gqlden  triumph  of  his  life,  and  he  was  a  man 
to  be  intoxicated  by  it.  Practical  and  calm  as 
he  appeared,  he  was  a  visionary  all  the  same ; 
and  having  arranged  his  plans  for  getting  out  of 
the  affair  with  clean  palms  in  case  of  disaster,  he 
rushed  on,  and  enjoyed  his  triumph  to  the  ut 
most. 

St.  Simon  was  very  popular  in  these  days,  and 
among  persons  who  prided  themselves  on  their 
wisdom  and  position  Mrs.  Pattaker  idolized  him. 
Sir  John  Dudgeon  swore  by  him,  and  Colonel 
Judd  was  his  stanch  ally.  People  would  as 
soon  have  thought  of  disputing  the  commonest 
fact,  such  as  that  the  earth  turned  on  its  axis,  or 
spring  followed  winter,  as  have  dreamed  of  cast 
ing  a  doubt  upon  the  Nevada  silver  mine  at  this 
season.  The  members  of  the  company  had  as 
much  faith  in  St.  Simon  as  the  world  at  large, 
and  he  rode  easily  and  gracefully  upon  the  top 
most  wave,  and  floated  over  a  summer  sea  of 
success  in  a  very  gorgeous  bark  indeed. 

The  days  which  preceded  Gregory  Alleyne's 
departure  were  sad  ones  to  the  earnest-hearted 
man.  He  was  sorry  to  leave  Fanny  behind ;  he 
dreaded  the  solitude  which  for  so  long  had  been 
peopled  with  desolate  phantoms.  The  reasons 
for  his  journey  were  known  to  every  body,  so  that 
even  the  most  imaginative  gossip  could  not  in 
dulge  in  a  hint  that  the  engagement  had  come 
to  an  end.  That  excellent  woman,  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker,  professed  herself  exceedingly  glad  of  this ; 
she  was  greatly  attached  to  Miss  St.  Simon,  with 
all  her  faults,  and  should  have  been  grieved  in 
deed  had  any  trouble  arisen.  Since  she  could 
not  lament  over  a  rupture,  this  was  the  next 
most  consolatory  thing  to  say ;  and  she  said  it 
over  and  over,  and  Miss  Langois  quoted  it,  and 
they  both  suggested  to  Fanny  that  malicious  peo 
ple  would  try  to  believe  she  had  lost  Gregory 
Alleyne. 

Fanny  was  only  amused  by  their  solicitude,  but 
Alleyne  waxed  indignant  when  she  repeated  the 


102 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


speeches  to  him,  and  took  care  that  it  should  be 
known  he  had  pleaded  against  any  delay  in  their 
marriage,  and  that  it  was  only  the  scruples  of  his 
betrothed  which  caused  it.  So  then  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  said  the  trust  he  showed  was  a  lovely  sight 
in  this  weary  world  of  doubt  and  disappointment. 
She  hoped— ah,  how  earnestly !  that  no  trouble 
might  ever  reach  him  through  his  affection  for 
this  wayward  but  charming  young  woman,  be 
cause  she  was  devoted  to  Miss  St.  Simon  in  spite 
of  her  faults. 

Gregory  Alleyne  sailed  for  America,  and  Fan 
ny  had  leisure  to  study  the  papers  he  left— papers 
which  were  to  be  read  in  case  he  never  returned ; 
but  probably  Fanny  thought  it  well  to  familiar 
ize  herself  with  his  wishes  under  any  circum 
stances.  These  documents  told  her  in  what  his 
property  consisted,  stated  the  charities  and  other 
ends  to  which  he  devoted  large  sums  annually. 
He  added,  with  many  tender  words,  that  if  it  be 
came  necessary  to  open  the  will  deposited  with 
his  lawyer  (the  will  which  bequeathed  almost  the 
whole  of  this  vast  fortune  to  her),  he  knew  it 
would  be  her  pleasure  to  follow  out  his  plans,  and 
those  he  had  laid  down  for  the  future — modified, 
of  course,  in  any  manner  which  unforeseen  exi 
gencies  or  her  clear  intellect  might  suggest. 

"He  will  come  back,"  thought  Fanny,  as  she 
put  the  letters  aside.  "If  I  loved  him,  Fate 
would  take  a  serene  pleasure  in  his  drowning ; 
but  he  will  come  back." 

Gregory  Alleyne  was  gone,  and  Fanny  had  her 
life  free  once  more  for  a  season,  though  she  ask 
ed  bitterly  why  she  should  be  glad,  since  she  had 
no  use  to  make  of  her  freedom.  A  little  later 
she  heard  of  Lady  Castlemaine's  illness  at  Nice. 
She  thought  very  calmly  that  if  it  should  please 
her  ladyship  to  go  out  of  the  world,  and  Gregory 
Alleyne  saw  fit  to  follow,  then,  indeed,  a  whole 
new  existence  might  unfold  before  herself. 

Most  persons  would  have  shrunk  from  openly 
contemplating  such  possibilities  —  would  have 
covered  them  under  specious  names  ;  but  Fanny 
was  past  attempting  any  deception  with  her  soul. 
She  wished  heartily  that  Lady  Castlemaine  might 
go  to  heaven,  and  Alleyne  set  off  in  pursuit  of 
her.  They  were  both  good  and  virtuous,  so 
heaven  was  certain  to  be  their  portion.  But 
she  had  no  hope  of  so  dramatic  a  denouement. 

"  The  people  who  ought  to  die  never  do,"  was 
her  theory,  and  she  expressed  it  to  the  Tortoise, 
because  these  fancies  chanced  to  enter  her  mind 
when  she  was  sitting  with  her  relative,  after  hav 
ing  read  a  paragraph  in  regard  to  Marian's  ill 
ness  in  a  late  Galignani.  "No,  T.,  those  are 
the  persons  that  live  forever." 

The  Tortoise  looked  up  from  the  mass  of 
tangled  crochet  which  she  believed  a  miracle  of 
art,  and  became  tearful  at  once. 

"I oughtn't  to  die,  ought  I,  Fanny  ?"  she  sniff 
ed,  staring  apprehensively  at  her  niece,  as  if  she 
expected  to  be  ordered  off  to  instant  execution, 


and  had  no  sufficient  excuse  to  offer  for  hesi 
tating.  "  I  am  very  comfortable ;  and  now  that 
we  have  a  carriage  and  good  dinners,  and  St. 
Simon  doesn't  take  my  diamonds,  I  like  living 
well  enough.  You  don't  want  me  to  die,  do 
you  ?" 

"  Would  not  have  you  die  for  the  world,  T. !" 
laughed  Fanny.  "Live  as  long  as  you  can,  en 
joy  your  good  dinners,  and  keep  your  diamonds 
hid  from  St.  Simon  in  your  shoe." 

"'Sh!  Don't  say  out  loud  where  I  have 
them,  "returned  the  Tortoise,  winking  and  blink 
ing.  "One  never  knows  what  St.  Simon  may 
hear." 

"But  he  is  not  in  the  house,  T." 

"No  matter — one  never  knows!  Say — let 
me  see — say  cupboard  when  you  mean  shoe,"  she 
gasped,  quite  exhausted  by  her  brilliant  effort  at 
diplomacy. 

Fanny  watched  her,  and  wondered  if  in  her 
younger  days  longings  for  release  had  haunted 
the  soul  now  grown  dull  and  helpless. 

"  Did  you  ever  wish  to  die,  T.  ?"  she  asked. 

The  Tortoise  had  resumed  her  torturing  of 
the  worsted,  but  she  laid  her  work  down  pgain, 
and  looked  more  vague  and  puzzled  than  ordi 
nary  in  the  unusual  attempt  at  recollection  with 
which  Fanny's  question  had  inspired  her. 

"Wish  to  die?"  she  repeated,  in  a  rather 
awed  tone. 

"  Yes ;  when  you  were  young,  and  things  look 
ed  black,  and  there  seemed  no  hope  anywhere." 

"It  seems  to  me  I  did,"  returned  the  Tor 
toise,  slowly.  ' '  When  I  was  young,  you  know ; 
I  was  very  young  when  St.  Simon  married  me." 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  did  wish  it  ?" 

"I  think  so;  I  had  not  got  used  to  things. 
But  I  don't  mind  now ;  that  was  a  great  while 
ago." 

She  never  complained  of  her  husband ;  indeed, 
she  seldom  spoke  of  him  unless  his  name  was 
mentioned.  If  he  went  away,  and  remained  ab 
sent  several  weeks,  she  gradually  became  less 
nervous,  and  almost  ceased  to  jump  and  flutter 
if  any  one  spoke  suddenly,  or  came  upon  her  un 
awares.  Still,  she  was  not  uncomfortable  exact 
ly  in  his  society,  nowadays,  and  Fanny  often  felt 
curious  to  know  whether  there  had  formerly  been 
real  capabilities  of  suffering  in  her  nature. 

"Used  you  to  cry, T.  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  my,  yes!  I  remember  that.  Day  and 
night — day  and  night!  But  it  seems  so  long 
ago.  Somehow  it  doesn't  seem  as  if  it  was  me," 
she  replied,  in  the  same  slow  way.  ' '  You  needn't 
mention  it  to  St.  Simon,  you  know ;  he  might  not 
like  my  remembering  things." 

"Of  course  not.  But  what  did  you  cry 
about  ?" 

"Oh!  I  can't  tell.  Sometimes  one  thing, 
sometimes  another  ;  and  I  always  did  hate  to  be 
pinched,  Fanny!" 

"Most  people  do,  I  imagine.     But  that  was 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


103 


not  all ;  there  were  debts,  and  gambling,  and  all 
sorts  of  things — eh  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Tortoise,  shuddering;  but 
still  with  that  same  apparent  effort,  at  recollec 
tion,  and  the  odd  uncertainty  as  to  whether  it 
could  really  have  been  she  who  bore  those  trials. 
"Well,  then  the  baby  died  —  then  I  had  that 
dreadful  fever !  I  never  minded  things  so  much 
after.  Just  turn  your  back,  Fanny ;  I  want  to 
sneeze." 

"Did  St.  Simon  like  the  baby?"  inquired 
Fanny,  when  the  little  snuff-taking  process  was 
finished. 

"Oh  no!"  replied  the  Tortoise,  in  a  matter- 
of-course  tone.  "He  said  it  looked  like  a  rat; 
but  it  did  not :  it  was  a  beautiful  baby." 

"  What  ailed  it,  T.  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  was  only  just  up.  Where 
were  we?  Oh  yes — New  Orleans.  St.  Simon 
said  we  must  go  away — we  were  always  having 
to  go  away  from  somewhere — and  we  had  a  hard 
journey,  because  he  wanted  to  go  by  land  to 
some  city — may  be  in  Georgia.  There  weren't 
many  railways,  you  know,  then ;  and  I  got  tired, 
and  lost  my  milk,  and  so  the  poor  baby  pined 
and  died.  It  was  after  that  I  had  the  fever ;  so 
it's  all  mixed  up  in  my  mind." 

She  was  placid  and  composed,  though  she 
wiped  a  few  tears  from  her  eyes. 

"It  was  such  a  pretty  baby,  Fanny.  Well, 
then — oh,  St.  Simon  got  tired,  for  I  was  a  long 
while  before  I  could  get  straight.  He  said  he 
would  shut  me  up  if  I  did  not  hurry ;  but  he 
never  did." 

Fanny's  nerves  were  by  no  means  weak,  but 
she  shuddered  a  little  at  the  dismal  history  ren 
dered  plain  by  the  Tortoise's  simple  words,  though 
the  creature  herself  was  calm,  and  maundered  on 
in  her  usual  fashion. 

"Poor  T. !"  Fanny  said,  involuntarily. 

"Yes  —  it  wasn't  nice,"  she  answered;  "I 
hated  the  idea  of  being  shut  up.  I  read  once  in 
some  book  that  they  pinch  people  there,  too.  I 
never  liked  that,  you  remember." 

Fanny  could  easily  believe  that  the  days  had 
been  when  the  Tortoise  lived  in  actual  physical 
fear.  She  could  herself  remember  St.  Simon 
much  more  violent  than  he  showed  of  late  years ; 
but  her  own  temper  had  even  then,  child  as  she 
was,  proved  a  match  for  his,  and  he  had  soon 
grown  cautious  of  exciting  it. 

"Then  it  is  all  a  good  deal  jumbled  up,"  the 
Tortoise  said,  pursuing  the  tangled  thread  of  her 
recollections.  "We  were  always  going  about 
from  pillar  to  post,  till  I  got  so  confused  I  couldn't 
tell  my  night-cap  from  a  pocket-handkerchief." 

She  looked  so  perplexed  that  Fanny  hastened 
to  give  her  a  clue,  or  at  least  some  one  important 
event  on  which  to  rest  her  memory. 

"And  at  last  you  came  to  Europe." 

"Oh  yes — that  was  it." 

"And  you  have  never  been  back?" 


' '  Oh  dear,  no — the  sea  and  all !  Then  it  seems 
to  me  I  never  could  keep  still  there — we  always 
traveled  so  much ;  and  the  baby,  you  know — I 
should  expect  to  find  it,  and  be  disappointed ; 
no,  I  never  wanted  to  go  back,"  droned  the  Tor 
toise.  "It  was  such  a  pretty  baby,  Fanny — 
such  a  pretty  baby!" 

She  must  have  suffered  in  her  day.  Fanny 
felt  sure  of  that  now.  For  years  little  more  than 
the  material  part  of  her  had  been  alive.  She 
was  neither  deranged  nor  idiotic  ;  strangers  sim 
ply  considered  her  a  stupid,  sleepy,  dumpy  wom 
an,  with  a  genius  for  losing  her  clothes.  But 
Fanny  knew  that  some  time  she  had  been  differ 
ent.  She  could  picture  the  life  of  which  that 
journey  was  an  example. 

"I  have  always  been  more  comfortable  since 
you  came  over  here  to  us,"  continued  the  Tor 
toise,  suddenly.  "  You  are  very  clever,  Fanny. 
You  can  even  outmanoeuvre  St.  Simon ;  and  I 
never  thought  any  body  could  do  that." 

Fanny  laughed  at  the  honesty  of  the  doubtful 
praise. 

"I  should  think  it  must  be  time  for  my  cup 
of  tea,"  sighed  the  Tortoise;  "I  feel  such  a 
sinking.  My  digestion  is  so  quick !" 

She  could  eat,  sleep,  and  answer  when  people 
spoke  to  her.  Fanny  reflected  that  it  was  well 
other  capabilities  had  one  by  one  died  out ;  she 
was  contented  in  a  mushroom  sort  of  fashion. 

"And  it  is  a  good  deal  to  reach  that," 
thought  Fanny.  "  One  might  be  worse  off  than 
poor  T. !  I  may  long  for  the  mushroom  stage 
mvself  before  I  die." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A    DAT    AT     BADEN. 

IT  was  almost  August.  The  latter  part  of 
the  "season "the  Castlemaines  had  spent  in 
London.  Marian,  of  course,  went  through  the 
ceremony  of  presentation  at  court,  and  had  her 
part  in  the  whirl  of  amusements  wherewith  so 
ciety  dooms  unfortunates  to  bore  themselves. 
She  was  well  received,  and  called  pretty,  but 
achieved  none  of  the  succesi  which  is  so  dear 
to  most  girls  of  her  age.  Her  hopeless  shyness 
stood  in  the  way  of  any  real  enjoyment,  and  the 
round  of  pleasures  and  excitements  only  con 
fused  and  troubled  her.  The  few  people  who 
had  leisure  actually  to  become  acquainted  were 
warm  in  their  praise,  and  formed  strong  attach 
ments  for  her ;  but  to  the  world  in  general  she 
appeared  merely  a  dainty  bit  of  still  life ;  and 
the  gay  associates  who  welcomed  Sir  Talbot 
among  them  again  so  gladly  wondered  a  great 
deal  how  he  had  happened  to  choose  her  as  the 
sharer  of  his  new  title  and  wealth. 

His  own  popularity  was  immense ;  his  old 
follies  (nobody  dreamed  of  giving  to  them  a 


104 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


harsher  name  now)  were  passed  over  with  con 
siderate  leniency,  and  society  elected  him  one  of 
her  chief  favorites.  Marriageable  young  ladies 
and  married  women  with  coquettish  instincts, 
half  blamed,  half  pitied  him  for  his  choice  of  a 
wife,  the  latter  portion  of  the  fair  sex  inclining 
much  to  sympathy,  and  exhibiting  a  charitable 
disposition  to  console  him  in  his  mistake. 

If  Marian  had  achieved  a  triumph,  and  en 
tered  the  lists  among  those  queens  of  the  gay 
world,  Castlemaine  would  have  been  annoyed; 
yet  she  might  have  stood  more  chance  of  keep 
ing  a  hold  on  his  wayward  fancy.  Her  reserved, 
quiet  manners  ;  her  habit  of  seeking  shelter  un 
der  the  hearse- like  plumes  of  massive  dowagers ; 
her  herding  with  the  ancient  wall-flowers  who 
decorate  festive  scenes,  fretted  him;  and  the 
very  fact  that  she  seemed  to  consider  herself  a 
rather  unimportant  personage  caused  him  to  re 
gard  her  in  this  light  also. 

When  they  were  alone — which  happened  sel 
dom — her  loving  gentleness  became  a  weariness, 
and  her  enthusiasm  and  pretty  fancies,  which  he 
had  at  first  found  interesting,  appeared  childish 
and  silly.  She  was  not  strong  yet,  and  was  oft 
en  glad  to  remain  at  home ;  but  he  did  not  stay 
with  her — still  keeping  up  a  sufficient  pretense 
to  offer  excuses — and  Marian  never  complained. 
She  began  to  have  a  dread  of  his  growing  bored ; 
she  had  discovered  that  his  facilities  in  this  line 
were  extreme,  though  inclined  to  think  she  must 
be  in  fault.  , 

The  bloom  was  wearing  rapidly  off  her  dream, 
and  she  was  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  change  any 
thing.  But  she  bore  her  burden  in  silence,  lest 
Talbot  should  be  wearied  by  her  reproaches  or 
complaints.  She  was  not  conscious  of  possess 
ing  any  talent  at  reading  character,  yet  she  be 
gan  to  understand  her  husband's,  still  not  blam 
ing  him  in  her  thoughts.  She  perceived  his 
weaknesses,  his  love  of  adulation,  his  utter  ina 
bility  to  resist  flirting  with  each  pretty  face  he 
met,  and  she  suffered.  But,  childish  and  weak 
as  most  people  thought  her,  she  was  capable  of 
a  self-control  few  women  of  her  age  could  have 
shown. 

Toward  the  end  of  June  she  grew  so  weak 
and  delicate  that  4he  medical  men  advised  her 
trying  country  air  without  delay.  Talbot  heard 
the  verdict  amiably  enough,  and  went  with  her 
to  Castlemaine  Park.  After  a  few  days  he  told 
her  he  must  return  to  town;  and  for  several 
weeks  she  remained  alone  with  Grandma  Payne, 
who  was  terribly  indignant  at  such  conduct  on 
Sir  Talbot's  part,  but  found  no  opportunity  even 
to  hint  her  feelings  to  Marian. 

They  seemed  long  and  dreary  to  the  poor 
child,  those  bright  summer  days ;  yet  .she  main 
tained  a  cheerful  demeanor,  wrote  loving  letters 
to  Talbot,  pleasant  ones  to  Miss  Devereux,  and 
bore  her  burden  alone.  She  believed  still  that 
Talbot  loved  her,  but  she  saw  that  her  impor 


tance  in  his  life  was  slight.  She  thought  sadly 
that  perhaps  this  must  always  be  the  case  with  a 
woman ;  love  was  not  so  much  to  men  as  to  her 
sex. 

If  her  hope  of  the  early  spring  could  only  have 
been  realized  —  if  she  had  become  a  mother! 
No  mortal  knew  how  Marian  grieved  over  that 
disappointment.  Life  was  rapidly  growing  real 
enough:  sometimes  it  occurred  to  her  that  hers 
would  not  be  a  long  one,  and  the  idea  brought 
her  no  pain. 

At  last  Castlemaine  came  back.  He  soon 
bored  himself  terribly  in  that  dull  place,  and 
proposed  to  Marian  that  they  should  go  to  Hom- 
burg  and  Baden.  This,  report  said,  was  the 
final  season  of  attraction  in  those  gay  haunts ; 
the  Empress  Augusta  had  inspired  her  imperial 
spouse  with  conscientious  scruples,  and  the  gam 
ing-tables  were  to  be  abolished.  Marian  ought 
to  see  those  famous  resorts  before  they  were  de 
nuded  of  their  present  fascinations,  and  Marian 
tried  to  feel  grateful  for  his  kindness,  and  to  be 
lieve  that  his  proposal  was  dictated  by  the  rea 
sons  which  he  gave. 

To  Homburg  they  went,  and  at  the  expira 
tion  of  a  fortnight  Talbot  was  so  disgusted  with 
his  ill-luck  that  he  hated  the  place,  and  they 
moved  on  to  Baden. 

At  the  hotel,  where  they  had  an  apartment  so 
spacious  and  grand  that  poor  Marian  felt  lost  in 
it,  she  met  a  little  party  of  English  acquaintances 
who  liked  and  appreciated  her.  Baden  prom 
ised  to  prove  less  solitary  and  tiresome  than  Hom 
burg,  and  she  was  glad  to  be  there. 

It  was  the  third  day  after  their  arrival.  An 
Austrian  lady  whom  Talbot  knew  was  giving  a 
fete-champ£tre  at  her  villa,  a  few  miles  from  the 
town,  and  the  Castlemaines  were  invited.  Mar 
ian  was  not  well  enough  to  go,  but  she  urged 
Talbot *to  accept  the  invitation,  and,  as  he  had 
from  the  first  the  intention  of  so  doing,  naturally 
he  acted  in  accordance  with  her  advice. 

It  was  almost  sunset,  however,  before  he  reach 
ed  the  house.  As  usual,  he  had  changed  his 
mind  and  elected  to  remain  at  home,  then  at  the 
last  moment  decided  anew  in  favor  of  boring 
himself  for  a  while. 

He  had  paid  his  compliments  to  the  hostess, 
greeted  numbers  of  old  acquaintances,  listened 
and  replied  to  pretty  speeches  till  he  loathed  ev 
ery  thing  and  every  body,  and  wondered  why  he 
came.  Existence  was  rather  a  burden  at  this 
time,  in  spite  of  his  having  gained  the  wealth 
and  position  which  he  had  always  thought  would 
bring  content. 

The  bare  fact  that  he  was  married  and  "done 
for  "  seemed  to  render  life  stale  and  unprofitable. 
He  hated  to  think  that  his  destiny  was  settled; 
the  idea  fretted  him  like  a  goad.  After  all,  per 
haps  he  could  have  done  no  better,  since  mat 
rimony  was  an  "institution"  of  civilized  lands. 
At  least  Marian  never  teased  or  worried  him ; 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


105 


but  she  was  childish  and  insipid  ;  a  storm  now 
and  then  might  prove  an  agreeable  variety. 

There  were  gay  parties  scattered  about  the 
lawn — the  luncheon  tents  were  still  crowded — 
music  sounded  from  the  dancing-room.  It  was 
all  a  bore — the  women  hideous,  the  men  idiots ! 
Talbot  wandered  discontentedly  about,  conscious 
that  he  was  looking  dreadfully  English  and  un 
approachable,  and  rendered  the  more  irritable 
by  this  consciousness. 

He  entered  the  house,  strayed  through  room 
after  room,  still  meeting  people  he  knew,  forced 
to  talk,  and  wishing  that  he  and  the  rest  of  the 
world  were  deaf  and  dumb,  and  that  the  lan 
guage  of  signs  had  never  been  invented  for  the 
convenience  of  mutes. 

He  found  himself  on  a  balcony  at  the  back  of 
the  salons,  giving  on  the  gardens.  The  sounds 
of  music  and  laughing  voices  floated  up,  softened 
by  the  distance.  The  last  glory  of  the  sunset 
tinted  the  flowering  vines.  Here  was  a  quiet 
nook  at  last — not  a  soul  in  sight.  Yes,  by  Jove ! 
there  was  somebody  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
balcony — a  woman.  Why — 

Castlemaine  looked  again,  and  his  impatient 
thoughts  gave  way  to  other  emotions.  Sitting 
there  among  the  flowers  and  green  leaves  he  be 
held  Fanny  St.  Simon,  leaning  over  the  railing, 
and  gazing  away  out  at  the  sunset. 

He  hurried  forward,  exclaiming, 

"May  one  venture  to  call  you  down  from 
dream-land  ?" 

She  turned  her  head  slowly;  there  was  nei 
ther  surprise  nor  wonder  in  her  face.  The  great 
luminous  eyes  rested  softly  on  him ;  her  lips 
parted  in  a  smile  whose  witchery  might  well 
have  been  dangerous  even  to  a  man  steeled 
against  feminine  fascinations.  An  emotion  so 
strange,  so  profound,  shook  his  very  soul,  that 
after  those  first  words  he  stood  absolutely  silent, 
till  at  length  her  voice  roused  him. 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  would  find  me  out," 
she  said.  "I  heard  you  were  coming.  I  was 
tired — they  made  me  dance — so  I  got  away  here 
to  rest  for  a  little.  Isn't  that  a  glorious  sunset  ? 
Do  you  remember  the  sunsets  at  Sorrento?  I 
can  hear  the  waves  now  and  smell  the  tuberoses 
that  filled  the  garden ;  do  you  recollect  ?" 

Then  she  touched  his  eagerly  extended  hand 
with  her  fingers,  and  laughed  softly,  adding,  be 
fore  he  could  speak, 

"But  you  are  married  and  dull  and  respect 
able  in  these  days,  and  have  prettier  tilings  to 
think  of  than  sunsets  that  vanished  ages  ago, 
and  roses  that  have  been  dead  an  eternity.  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Castlemaine?  Since  you  have 
come  up  like  a  ghost  into  the  midst  of  my  dream, 
why  don't  you  behave  civilly? — even  ghosts 
ought  to  do  that.  Say  how  do  you  do,  and  don't 
stand  there  like  the  statue  of  the  Commandatore, 
else  I  shall  be  afraid." 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  yon — so  very  glad!"  he 


cried,  forgetting  his  elegant  drawl  and  his  aris 
tocratic  listlessness.  "I  have  only  just  cope  to 
Baden,  and  did  not  know  you  were  here." 

Could  it  be  that  he  had  absolutely  forgotten 
her — had  not  thought  of  her  for  months?  A 
place  different  from  that  occupied  by  any  other 
woman  she  had  always  held  in  his  memory,  when 
he  did  think  of  her,  and  here  she  was  now  more 
fascinating  than  ever — the  glamour  of  her  eyes 
deepened — that  wonderful  smile  more  thrilling — 
each  curve  of  the  willowy  form  more  graceful 
and  perfect  than  of  old. 

Fanny  St.  Simon  read  every  thought  in  his 
mind  as  easily  as  if  he  had  given  them  utter 
ance.  She  sat  looking  full  in  his  face  with  a 
pensive,  abstracted  gaze,  which  somehow  made 
him  comprehend  that  she-  was  dreaming  still  of 
those  Italian  sunsets  they  had  watched  side  by 
side,  inhaling  anew  the  odor  of  the  white  blos 
soms  he  had  woven  in  her  hair. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?"  he  asked. 

"No  —  yes  —  I  can't  tell,"  she  answered. 
"After  one's  friends  have  dropped  out  of  one's 
life  it  hardly  ever  answers  to  welcome  them 
back." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  that  remarkable 
assertion,"  said  he. 

"Because  when  every  thing  is  changed,  the 
old  friendship  can  not  go  on  as  it  used ;  and  it's 
dreary  work  falling  down  to  simple  acquaint 
anceship.  Now  you  and  I  were  good  friends — 
real  friends,  who  could  talk  freely,  and  tell  each 
other  the  truth." 

She  spoke  with  such  perfect  composure,  that 
it  occurred  to  him  he  had  been  presumptuous 
and  rather  asinine  in  deciding  so  quickly  that 
the  memory  of  the  vanished  Italian  days  had 
any  special  power  over  her. 

"I  hope  we  may  be  on  the  same  terms  still; 
I  can't  perceive  why  we  should  not  be,"  he  re 
plied,  in  an  injured  tone. 

"That  is  delightful!"  cried  she,  gayly. 
"Didn't  I  begin  by  telling  you  that  now  you 
were  dull,  respectable,  married?  Men's  wives 
don't  approve  of  their  husbands'  old  friends." 

"  I  assure  you  that  you  will  find  mine  an  ex 
ception — " 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  La3y  Castlemaine  is 
perfection !  By-the-bye,  I  forgot  to  give  you 
the  benefit  of  your  title ;  but  I  do  not  forget 
that  of  your  wife.  And  so  you  think  the  dis 
penser  of  your  fute  would  tolerate  me?  What 
is  she  like — pretty,  of  course?  Come,  you  are 
still  new  enough  husband  to  be  romantic.  You 
must  have  her  picture  hidden  somewhere  close 
to  your  heart.  Show  it  me  ?" 

"One  is  not  exactly  a  bridegroom  after  eight 
or  nine  months,"  he  said,  somewhat  annoyed  by 
her  laughing  at  him. 

"You  frighten  me!  Does  the  romance  wear 
off  so  quickly  ?  Now  that  fills  me  with  personal 
dread !  I  have  scarcely  the  heart  to  ask  you  to 


106 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


congratulate  me,  and  offer  good  wishes  in  my 
behalf." 

"I  was  not  aware — I  had  not  heard — " 

He  looked  fairly  awkward. 

"Ah,  you  have  been  living  in  fairy-land,"  said 
she.  "  Yes,  I  am  going  to  try  the  venture  also ; 
is  it  very  tiresome  ?" 

"Do  I  know  the  fortunate  person  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  not— Mr.  Gregory  Alleyne;  he  is 
an  American." 

"Young?" 

"  Certainly— rather  handsome  too !  Did  you 
think  I  meant  to  sell  myself  to  some  old  fright?" 

"No,  no!  And — and— you  are  very  happy, 
I  suppose ;  you  find  him  an  Adonis,  and — " 

"And— and— you  are  very  happy,  I  suppose," 
repeated  she,  "and  very  much  in  love." 

"  Oh,  the  cases  are  not  parallel.  I  have  been 
in  the  harness  so  long." 

"You  asked  me  if  I  was  glad  to  see  you,"  said 
she,  gravely ;  "I  find  I  am  not." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"  Because  you  do  not  come  with  the  old  friend 
liness  and  frankness.  You  think  you  must  speak 
as  you  would  to  the  world  at  large.  You  are 
ashamed  to  let  me  see  that  you  can  be  romantic, 
that  you  are  happy ;  you  fear  it  would  look  weak 
and  silly — and  yet  you  married  for  love." 

"I  don't  know  why  I  married :  I  was  just  ask 
ing  myself. " 

She  gave  him  one  quick,  sympathetic  glance, 
then  shook  her  head  reprovingly. 

"Don't  say  such  things,"  she  said. 

"Yet  you  were  just  declaring  that  you  want 
ed  the  truth,"  returned  he.  "Ah,  it  is  you  who 
will  not  let  the  old  friendship  come  back ;  and 
I  need  it :  I  am  lonely,  and  weary,  and  desolate. 
There,  I'm  honest  enough ;  scold  me,  if  you 
like." 

"I  have  not  the  right  any  longer,"  she  said, 
with  a  sigh.  ' '  But  your  wife — tell  me  about  her." 

"  She  is  a  child — a  baby ;  the  best  little  thing 
in  the  world — much  too  good  for  me." 

"  May  I  come  to  see  her  ?"  she  asked. 

"Marian  will  be  charmed." 

"I  hope  she  will  try  to  like  me,"  said  Fanny. 

"As  if  she  could  do  otherwise!  And  I  sup 
pose  I  am  to  be  presented  to  this  Mr.  Alleyne ; 
I  warn  you  in  advance  I  shall  hate  him." 

"You  can  defer  your  hatred  for  the  present," 
she  replied ;  "he  is  in  America — been  there  for 
several  months — detained  by  business  and  ill 
ness;" 

"And  you  did  not  fly  to  him  ?"  he  asked,  with 
harsh  sarcasm. 

"There  are  things  women  can  not  do,"  she 
said,  seriously.  "We  are  fettered  by  a  thou 
sand  rules ;  must  sit  still  and  bear  our  anxieties 
and  make  no  sign,  at  the  risk  of  being  called 
bold  and  unfeminine." 

"And  will  your  amiable  anxiety  soon  be  end 
ed  ?"  he  demanded. 


' '  Mr.  Alleyne  writes  me  that  he  fears  he  can 
not  return  before  September." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  that!"  cried  Castlemaine. 

She  looked  at  once  vexed  and  amused. 

"  That  is  not  polite,"  said  she.  "Now,  listen, 
Sir  Talbot— " 

"You  used  to  call  me  Talbot, "he interrupted. 

"I  will  now,  if  Lady  Castlemaine  has  no  ob 
jection,  "said  she. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently. 

"To  what  shall  I  listen ?"  he  asked. 

"Just  this:  I  am  glad  to  see  you — to  have 
my  friend  back ;  but  don't  talk  the  platitudes  of 
society,  don't  make  such  speeches  as  that  was — 
as  you  talk  to  women  with  whom  you  are  having 
a  flirtation :  I  don't  mean  to  be  on  those  terms." 

"  I  consent  to  any  terms  you  may  insist  upon," 
he  cried. 

"I  want  your  wife  to  like  me — I  want  to  be 
the  friend  of  both.  If  you  will  let  me,  I  shall  be 
very  glad  you  have  come  once  more  within  reach 
of  my  life." 

"Did  you  miss  me?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Oh  yes," she  said;  "I  missed  you  dreadful 
ly  for  a  long  time." 

"If  I  had  known — " 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Talbot!"  The  color  deep 
ened  in  her  cheeks,  but  she  quieted  her  emotion, 
and  added,  calmly,  "That  is  nonsense,  and  you 
are  aware  of  it.  The  last  time  we  met  was  last 
autumn ;  you  went  away  from  me  with  perfect 
indifference." 

"It  is  not  true.  I  had  to  go — I  was  crible 
with  debt ;  ruin  stared  me  in  the  face — " 

"And  you  were  hurrying  to  England  to  ask 
Miss  Devereux  to  marry  you,"  she  added. 
"Why  didn't  you  do  it?" 

"  Oh,  Lord,  it's  a  very  crazy  story  !"  he  cried. 
"I'd  like  to  tell  you  —  I  want  you  to  under 
stand — " 

"One  moment  first,"  interrupted  Fanny ;  "  let 
me  make  you  understand.  I  am  not  reproach 
ing  you — we  were  only  friends ;  I  had  no  right 
or  wish  to  stop  your  marrying  Miss  Devereux, 
or  any  other  iceberg  hung  with  diamonds." 

"Let  me  tell  you!" 

"  So  I  will,  but  don't  get  the  idea  that  I  want 
to  do  sentiment  or  mean  you  to  flirt  with  me." 

"We  were  very  happy  those  weeks  in  Italy," 
he  said,  abruptly. 

"Very  happy  —  but  we  have  nothing  to  do 
with  them  now.  Let  us  be  friends,  Talbot.  Tell 
me  about  yourself." 

And  he  did  tell  her—  every  thing.  It  was  like 
recalling  a  dream,  to  go  over  the  events  before 
his  marriage.  He  termed  the  hopes  and  aims 
he  had  formed  then  absurd  nonsense ;  he  really 
believed  as  he  talked,  that  the  chief  reason 
which  had  led  to  his  marriage  was  that  he  found 
he  had  won  Marian's  heart.  He  described  his 
efforts  since  to  be  patient  and  decorous,  his  wea 
riness,  his  mingled  pity  and  irritation  toward  his 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


107 


wife.  He  talked  well  and  eloquently,  and  Fan 
ny  St.  Simon  was  moved  as  only  his  voice  could 
move  her. 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you  both,"  she  said, 
when  he  had  finished.  "You  have  to  thank 
Miss  Devereux;  if  she  had  let  you  alone,  all 
would  have  ended  well  enough.  She  must  needs 
meddle — regulate — rule.  She  has  ruined  your 
life,  and  Marian's  too." 

Castlemaine  was  struck  with  this  view  of  the 
case ;  it  was  the  American's  fault,  and  he  cursed 
her  in  his  heart. 

"At  least  now  you  can  see  how  much  I  need 
your  friendship,"  he  said,  drearily. 

"And  it  will  not  fail  you;  I  promise  that," 
Fanny  answered.  "I  expected  to  find  you  hap 
py,  to  see  you  adoring  your  little  wood -blos 
som.  " 

"Would  you  have  been  glad  ?"he  asked. 

She  had  no  wish  to  let  him  see  all  that  was  in 
her  heart ;  not  the  least  intention  of  yielding  to 
this  wild  love  which  sprung  up  more  potent  than 
ever  in  her  soul.  They  would  be  friends — that 
was  all  life  had  left  her ;  she  would  enjoy  this 
boon  to  the  utmost.  But  she  had  no  mind  to 
play  the  fool ;  no  thought  of  endangering  her 
future  by  drifting  into  a  sentimental  flirtation 
with  this  man. 

"Would  you  have  been  glad ?" he  repeated. 

She  turned  angrily  upon  him. 

"You  want  to  think  I  would  have  suffered; 
it  would  gratify  your  vanity,  I  suppose,"  she  said, 
bitterly. 

"Fanny,  Fanny!" 

The  pleading  tones,  the  thrilling  eyes,  shook 
her  self-  control  severely,  but  she  was  strong 
enough  in  these  days  to  act  her  part.  She  could 
take  care  of  herself  now ;  and,  indeed,  there  would 
be  a  pleasure,  moved  as  he  was  at  sight  of  her, 
in  letting  him  gain  a  perception  of  what  he  had 
lost  by  his  indolence  or  lack  of  strength. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  you  want,"  she  continued. 
"Bah, Talbot  Castlemaine,  do  you  expect  wom 
en  to  suffer  forever,  when  you  men  can  so  easily 
forget?" 

"You  did  care!"  he  cried.  "You  can  not 
deny  that  you  cared !" 

"Yes,  I  cared,"  she  answered,  steadily.  "I 
am  riot  in  the  least  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it ; 
I  cared.  Look  back  over  that  time  in  Italy :  did 
you  not  mean  me  to  care  ?  Ah,  well !  we  were 
very  happy  for  a  while — very  happy,  were  we 
not  ?  It  is  like  looking  back  on  a  dream,  or 
reading  a  pretty  story  about  somebody  else. 
How  long  ago  it  seems!  And  you  cared  too, 
Talbot,  n'est  ce  pas  ?" 

"I  loved  you!"  he  exclaimed,  with  flashing, 
eager  eyes  ;  "I  loved  you!" 

"  Very  well ;  you  are  not  to  tell  me  of  it  now," 
she  replied,  her  voice,  which  had  suddenly  soft 
ened,  growing  calm  again.  "I  tell  you  I  want 
no  nonsense.  I  shall  be  glad  of  a  friend ;  if  you 


can  not  prove  one,  honest  and  true,  keep  away 
from  me.  Choose !" 

"I  will  be  your  friend.  It  is  the  greatest  hap 
piness  life  could  give  me,"  he  cried.  "I  know 
we  must  not  go  over  the  past — we'll  leave  it  for 
ever  ;  but  do  me  justice." 

"I  do.  I  know  you  could  not  marry  me.  I 
never  blamed  you.  I  don't  blame  myself  either 
for  what  I  am  about  to  do." 

"And  you — you  are  fond  of  this  man?" 

"He  is  as  much  too  good  for  me  as  Marian  is 
for  you,"  she  replied.  "I  mean  to  be  a  tolera 
ble  wife." 

"  When  did  you  meet  him  ?" 

"At  the  time  you  were  wooing  the  heiress." 

"And  your  engagement?" 

"  I'm  not  good  at  dates,"  she  replied,  care 
lessly.  ' '  I  don't  like  questions  either,  as  a  rule. 
If  you  are  quite  satisfied,  let  us  talk  of  other 
things.  Don't  make  me  think  we  have  both 
grown  rusty  and  dull." 

But  he  stood  mute  under  the  gust  of  angry 
reflection  which  shook  his  soul.  How  could  he 
have  been  so  mad  —  so  mad?  How  could  he 
have  forgotten  this  rare  creature  in  a  dream  so 
weak  and  puerile  as  that  wherewith  he  had  fetter 
ed  his  life !  He  was  ready  to  beat  his  own  heart 
out  and  stamp  on  it,  in  the  rage  and  bitterness 
which  these  wild  reflections  caused  him.  He 
had  known  many  fancies,  but  he  loved  this  wom 
an  ;  he  loved  her,  and  now  she  was  out  of  his 
reach. 

"If  I  had  known  —  if  I  could  have  broken 
through  the  bonds  which  held  me! "he  exclaim 
ed  at  last. 

"Don't  let  us  talk  nonsense,"  returned  she; 
and  her  tone  sounded  at  once  mocking  and  sad. 
"The  past  is  dead  and  gone,  and  its  possibilities 
are  gone  with  it.  I  dare  say  we  are  quite  as 
well  off  without  them." 

" How  can  you  speak  like  that,  Fanny?" 

"  There,  there !  How  can  I  ?  Because  I  am 
alive  and  in  the  actual  world,  and  don't  mean  to 
go  peeping  into  dream-land  again." 

"Just  let  me  say — " 

She  started  to  her  feet  and  moved  away,  sign 
ing  him  to  stand  back  as  he  attempted  to  follow. 
If  her  first  intention  was  to  leave  him,  she  re 
linquished  it.  For  several  moments  she  walked 
up  and  down  the  balcony  in  silence.  The  gray 
of  twilight  gathered  about ;  the  music  and  laugh 
ter  'still  floated  up  from  the  distant  lawn.  She 
returned  to  his  side  as  abruptly  as  she  had 
gone. 

"  Now,  if  you  please,  we  will  go  back  to  the 
people,"  she  said.  "The  day  and  hour  that 
these  subjects  came  up  between  us  again  will  be 
the  signal  of  our  parting  forever.  Is  it  a  bar 
gain  ?" 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"  Then  take  me  out  among  the  dancers.  We 
have  not  had  a  valse  together  for  ages." 


108 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"You  are  enough  to  drive  one  mad ! "  he  cried, 
passionately. 

"Then  you  had  better  go  by  yourself,"  she  an 
swered,  firmly.  "Understand,  I  mean  to  have 
no  nonsense.  I  will  be  your  friend — your  wife's 
friend,  if  she  will  let  me;  but  we  have  done 
with  the  past,  and  I  warn  you  that  the  most 
rigid  prude  would  more  easily  pardon  the  inso 
lence  of  an  allusion  to  it  than  I." 

She  was  in  earnest ;  her  eyes  flashed ;  her 
voice  rang  out  sharp  and  clear. 

"Fanny — " 

"Make  up  your  mind,  here  and  now.  If  you 
can  be  friends,  take  my  hand ;  if  not,  walk 
through  that  door,  and  leave  me  my  life  to  my 
self." 

He  took  her  hand,  laid  it  softly  on  his  arm 
with  a  deep  respect  in  which  there  was  no  tinge 
of  mockery.  With  his  usual  facility  for  self-de 
ception,  Talbot  Castlemaine  believed  that  he  could 
keep  to  the  letter  of  the  bond  she  offered. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

DANGEROUS   GROUND. 

WHEN  the  month  of  June  brought  letters  from 
Alleyne  announcing  an  added  delay  instead  of 
the  expected  tidings  of  his  speedy  return,  Fanny 
St.  Simon  fully  appreciated  the  increased  re 
prieve  thus  afforded  her. 

Not  only  was  the  lawsuit  still  trailing  its  slow 
length,  but  a  new  trouble  had  assailed  Alleyne. 
The  only  daughter  of  his  late  sister,  a  girl  of  six 
teen,  had  suddenly  changed  from  delicacy  and 
languor,  which  had  never  created  much  anxiety, 
into  a  rapid  breaking -up  of  strength;  and  the 
physicians  warned  her  uncle  that  if  she  lived  un 
til  autumn,  it  was  all  he  could  hope.  The  girl 
was  too  weak  to  attempt  a  sea-voyage,  and  it 
was  impossible  for  Alleyne  to  leave  her,  as,  be 
sides  him,  with  the  exception  of  her  youthful 
brothers,  she  had  no  near  relative  to  offer  the 
care  and  attention  which  her  state  demanded. 

When  St.  Simon  heard  the  news,  he  insisted 
that  there  was  but  one  course  for  Fanny  to  pur 
sue.  He  must  go  with  her  to  America,  and  the 
marriage  take  place.  It  was  plain,  he  said,  from 
Alleyne's  letter,  that  the  man  looked  for  some 
such  generous  offer  on  her  part. 

"Then  he  will  be  disappointed,"  replied  Fan 
ny,  coolly.  "  I  have  no  fancy  for  playing  nurse 
to  a  peevish  girl,  nor — " 

"  You  could  have  people  enough  to  take  care 
of  her,"  broke  in  St.  Simon. 

"Nor  shall  I  make  so  undignified  a  proposal 
to  Mr.  Alleyne,"  she  continued,  without  noticing 
her  uncle's  parenthesis.  "He  does  not  expect 
it.  Such  an  offer  would  be  as  troublesome  in  the 
state  of  his  affairs  as  it  would  be  poetical.  You 
are  too  romantic  by  half,  St.  Simon." 


St.  Simon  uttered  some  hard  words  between  his 
teeth,  but  he  had  learned  that  it  was  not  safe  in 
these  days  to  indulge  in  any  extreme  language  to 
the  young  lady. 

"At  least,  you  ought  to  give  him  the  chance 
of  deciding,"  he  added,  as  soon  as  he  was  suf 
ficiently  soothed  by  that  whispered  malediction 
to  speak  quietly.  "It  would  only  show  a  little 
becoming  tenderness  on  your  part." 

"More  romance,  St.  Simon!  Pray  trust  me 
to  manage  the  matter.  I  think  I  have  proved 
that  I  understand  Mr.  Alleyne's  character  well 
enough  to  know  what  is  best." 

So  she  wrote  to  her  betrothed  a  sensible,  sym 
pathizing  letter.  She  longed  to  be  with  him ; 
her  first  impulse  had  been  to  write  that  she  was 
coming — nay,  she  would  confess  that  she  had 
actually  written  this;  but  after -thoughts  had 
shown  her  the  wisdom  of  destroying  the  epistle, 
which  emanated  rather  from  her  heart  than  her 
judgment.  She  proved  conclusively  that  she 
should  only  be  a  trouble  and  annoyance,  thereby 
making  Alleyne,  when  he  read  the  pages,  per 
ceive  that  it  would  be  the  height  of  selfishness  on 
his  part  to  accept  the  sacrifice.  He  was  certain 
that  she  had  not  thought  of  herself;  but  he  must 
think  for  her.  He  could  not,  much  as  he  need 
ed  aid,  allow  her  to  commence  their  married  life 
under  such  gloomy  auspices. 

He  wrote  her  this  ;  the  matter  was  settled, 
and  Fanny  could  keep  her  freedom  until  autumn. 
She  was  surprised  at  the  pleasure  this  prospect 
afforded  her,  since  she  had  no  more  use  to  make 
of  the  freedom  which  seemed  so  dear  than  she 
had  found  in  the  commencement. 

Later  she  infomied  Alleyne  that  her  uncle  and 
his  wife  were  going  to  Baden,  and,  little  as  she 
felt  in  the  mood  for  gayety,  she  must  accompa 
ny  them.  Now  that  there  was  no  possibility 
changing  what  had  been  arranged,  she  did  not 
hesitate  to  add, 

"I  believe  I  am  somewhat  hurt  that  you  did 
not  want  me  to  come  to  you.  I  thought  my  tell 
ing  you  that  I  had  at  first  thought  of  it  would 
make  you  ask  me  to  do  so.  But  it  is  better  as  it 
is,  I  suppose,  and  I  am  not  vexed ;  only  I  miss 
you." 

He  deemed  her  the  most  generous  woman  in 
the  world,  and  sent  her  a  more  tender,  lover-like 
letter  than  he  had  ever  before  done.  So  Fanny 
prepared  her  new  toilets,  and' went  off  to  Baden 
with  St.  Simon  and  the  Tortoise. 

To  say  that  she  was  happy  would  be  untrue ; 
she  had  her  seasons  of  horrible  misery.  The  one 
potent  feeling  of  her  life  had  been  her  love  for 
Talbot  Castlemaine,  and  the  bitterness  and  suffer 
ing — ay,  the  love  too — would  last  as  long  as  life 
did.  Still  the  luxury  of  her  present  existence ; 
the  position  which  St.  Simon's  success  gave  them  ; 
the  importance  that  attached  to  herself  in  the 
eyes  of  her  countrymen  from  her  engagement  to 
Gregory  Alleyne — all  these  were  pleasant  to  her. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


109 


And,  somehow,  she  could  not  feel  that  the  drama 
was  yet  ended  ;  she  could  not  help  dreaming  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  darkest  hours.  What  was 
to  come  she  never  imagined  distinctly ;  but  she 
could  not  see  herself  actually  married  to  Al- 
leyne,  or  Castlemaine  always  bound  by  his  pres 
ent  ties. 

The  day  after  her  meeting  with  him,  she  fur 
bished  up  the  Tortoise,  saw  her  securely  pinned 
into  a  handsome  gown,  and  took  her  to  call  on 
Lady  Castlemaine,  as  had  been  agreed  with  Sir 
Talbot. 

Talbot  had  told  Marian  of  his  chance  encount 
er  with  Miss  St.  Simon,  and  Marian  was  pre 
pared  to  receive  her  kindly. 

As  Fanny  looked  at  the  delicate,  sensitive 
face,  and  talked  in  her  most  winning  way,  she 
was  thinking, 

"You're  a  poor,  miserable  child.  You've  too 
many  nerves;  you  will  soon  show  dreadfully 
jaded  and  old.  What  a  pity  Providence  would 
not  take  you  out  of  this  weary  world !  You  will 
be  horribly  unhappy  with  that  man ;  you  have 
begun  to  be  so  now,  though  you  don't  understand 
why  ;  and  there  is  worse  beyond. " 

Not  through  her  means,  though.  Fanny  had 
no  intention  of  troubling  Marian's  peace;  not 
from  any  scruples  where  the  young  wife  was  con 
cerned,  but  simply  from  prudence.  She  had  no 
idea  of  risking  her  present  grandeur  and  respect 
ability,  though  it  was  a  little  heavy  sometimes  to 
carry  about.  She  would  be  friends  with  Talbot 
— he  might  tell  her  his  troubles,  learn  to  lament 
more  and  more  his  own  folly  and  precipitation — 
but  within  bounds.  She  would  neither  be  made 
love  ,to,  nor  in  the  least  compromised  by  his  dan 
gling  about  her.  She  told  him  this  frankly  be 
fore  a  week  had  gone.  He  followed  her,  haunt 
ed  the  places  where  she  visited ;  and  though  his 
presence  rendered  all  haunts  as  bright  as  if  they 
had  suddenly  been  flooded  with  tropical  sunshine, 
she  was  firm  in  her  determination. 

"  This  sort  of  thing  won't  answer,  you  know," 
she  said,  coolly,  at  the  earliest  convenient  oppor 
tunity. 

"I  should  think  not,"  returned  he,  willfully 
misunderstanding  her.  "  I  did  not  see  you  once 
yesterday;  it  seemed  an  eternity." 

"  You  will  not  see  me  for  a  much  longer  time, 
unless  you  conduct  yourself  very  differently  from 
what  you  have  been  doing,"  she  replied. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  You  don't  mean  that  I 
have  offended  you  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least;  and  I  don't  mean,  either, 
that  you  shall  offend  the  world  on  my  account." 

"  Hang  the  world !  What  do  you  call  by  thai 
doubtful  name  ?" 

"The  people  we  live  among,  of  course.  ] 
would  see  them  hung  with  serenity  ;  but  as  thai 
can  not  be,  one  must  live  at  peace  with  them.  ] 
suppose  what  I  am  going  to  say  will  sound  very 
bold  and  unfeminine." 


"As  if  any  thing  you  could  say  would  ever 
ound  so!" 

"  So  much  the  better,  for  I  must  say  it." 

"Now  you  are  going  to  be  cruel  and  harsh! 
Ah,  Fanny,  you  promised  to  be  my  friend ;  you 
are  forgetting  it  already." 

"It  is  precisely  because  I  want  to  keep  my 
vord  that  I  must  speak  seriously  to  you,"  she 
said. 

"Ah,  let's  dream  about  Italy;  that  is  better 
han  any  serious  talk,"  he  pleaded,  with  one  of 
those  tender  smiles  which  went  straight  to  her 
icart. 

But  she  showed  no  sign  of  emotion ;  her  face 
was  grave  and  her  voice  earnest,  as  she  an 
swered, 

"I  hope  you  were  honest,  too,  when  you 
pleaded  for  this  friendship." 

"Surely  you  don't  doubt  that!" 

"You  would  make  me,  if  you  were  to  go  on  in 
the  thoughtless  way  you  have  done  these  few  days 
since  we  met.  It  is  selfish  and  unkind ;  friend 
ship  can  not  be  that." 

"What  have  I  done?"  he  asked,  pulling  im 
patiently  at  his  mustache. 

"  You  are  a  married  man,  and  I  am  known  to 
be  engaged — " 

"Which  leaves  us  both  perfectly  free  to  be 
on  frank,  cordial  terms,"  he  put  in  with  eager 
ness. 

She  smiled  now ;  the  dimples  flitted  about  her 
mouth ;  her  great  eyes  lighted  up.  She  seem 
ed  positively  to  have  an  enchantress's  faculty  of 
growing  beautiful  at  will. 

"A  thorough  man's  argument,"  said  she, 
"and  as  sophistical  as  masculine  arguments  al 
ways  are.  There  is  nothing  people  are  so  severe 
upon  as  a  flirtation  between  a  married  man  and 
a  single  woman.  Now,  I  don't  mean  to  flirt,  and 
I  have  no  intention  of  letting  you  behave  so  that 
our  friendship  will  be  stigmatized  by  the  odious 
name." 

"  You  are  very  prudent  and  wise,"  he  exclaim 
ed,  rather  bitterly. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  answered.  "I  want  not 
only  the  world's  respect,  but  my  own — what  I 
prize  more  highly  still,  yours,  Talbot." 

"Surely  you  do  not  need  assurances  on  that 
score ! " 

"No,  I  don't  want  assurances.  I  demand 
conduct  on  your  part  which  will  prove  that  you 
really  feel  it." 

She  spoke  sternly,  and  her  countenance  as 
sumed  a  proud,  haughty  look,  which  was  a  new 
phase  of  beauty. 

"I'll  say  any  thing — do  any  thing  you  bid — 
only  don't  send  me  away  from  you,"  he  cried, 
his  capricious  nature  completely  under  the  charm 
of  her  varying  moods. 

"Then  behave  to  me  as  you  do  to  your  wife's 
other  friends.  Don't  pout  when  I  refose  to 
dance  with  you  twice  in  succession ;  don't  frown 


110 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


at  any  luckless  man  who  speaks  to  me  when  you 
are  near.  You  know  what  I  want ;  there  is  no 
need  of  going  into  details." 

"Then  I  am  never  to  see  you — never  really  to 
be  with  you  ?    I  might  as  well  go  off  with  my- 


I  have  bidden  you  farewell 


self  at  once." 

"As  you  please, 
before  now." 

Her  voice  trembled  slightly,  but  she  would  not 
yield  to  any  emotion,  and  interrupted  him  when 
he  burst  into  a  torrent  of  regret  and  self-abuse. 

"We  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  past,"  she 
•said.  "  It  is  only  the  future  that  concerns  us. 
Remember  what  I  have  asked.  You  may  come 
to  see  me  of  a  morning  whenever  you  will.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  visit  your  wife,  for  I  like  her. 
When  we  meet  in  the  world,  you  must  leave  me 
to  myself;  is  it  understood  ?" 

He  was  ready  to  accept  any  terms  she  offer 
ed,  and  Fanny  felt  gratified  and  touched  by  his 
submission.  She  was  a  very  clear-sighted  young 
woman,  yet  in  this  case  she  deceived  herself  as 
easily  as  the  most  brainless  of  her  sex  could 
have  done.  She  actually  believed  that  this 
friendship  which  she  had  planned  could  endure. 
For  once  she  meant  exactly  what  her  words  ex 
pressed —  neither  less  nor  more.  She  had  no 
self-delusion  where  her  love  for  this  man  was 
concerned;  she  knew  that  she  loved  him  still, 
but  he  should  never  know  it ;  she  could  perfectly 
trust  to  her  marvelous  control  and  powers  of  con 
cealment. 

In  truth,  Castlemaine  was  strangely  perplexed, 
and  unable  to  arrive  at  any  conclusion.  But  it 
was  easier  not  to  think — to  float  on  with  the 
stream,  and  at  least  have  as  much  enjoyment  of 
her  society  as  was  possible. 

Sir  Talbot  found  other  relaxations  for  his 
days  ;  he  gambled,  he  laid  wagers  on  races.  He 
as  completely  put  by  his  wise  resolutions  of  a  few 
months  previous  as  he  had  his  short-lived  caprice 
for  his  girlish  wife.  People  shook  their  heads 
when  his  name  was  mentioned.  But  he  was 
guilty  of  no  flagrant  act  against  society's  ideas  of 
decorum ;  and  so  long  as  a  man  guards  against 
such  folly,  society  can  overlook  a  great  deal  of 
wickedness  in  her  favorites ;  and  Castlemaine  was 
a  very  popular  man. 

Now,  then,  for  Marian ;  though  I  do  not  mean 
to  bore  you  with  long  descriptions  and  details  of 
feelings  and  motives.  It  is  an  old,  old  story — 
that  of  a  girl  marrying  in  the  midst  of  a  blissful 


Was  it  her  fault  that  Talbot  seemed  to  weary 
of  her  society?  Had  she  been  childish,  silly, 
troublesome  ?  She  could  not  tell  if  the  change 
grew  out  of  errors  on  her  own  part,  or  if  it  were 
true  that  marriage  always  brought  about  the 
same  results.  One  thing  was  settled  in  her 
mind — she  would  die  sooner  than  open  her  lips 
to  Talbot.  She  had  tried  that  once  before  their 
visit  to  Baden.  He  surprised  her  in  tears,  and, 
though  tears  bored  him,  he  did  ask  what  was  the 
matter,  and  attempted  to  soothe  her.  She  en 
deavored,  as  well  as  she  could,  to  explain  the 
dread  which  haunted  her  —  careful  to  utter  no 
complaint — and  he  was  patient  enough. 

"My  dear  mouse,"  he  said,  with  a  magnifi 
cent  patronizing  kindness  which  would  have 
been  inexpressibly  irritating  to  a  less  patient 
woman,  "you  are  not  strong  yet;  these  are 
mere  nervous  fancies.  Now,  once  for  all,  chick, 
don't  torment  yourself  or  me.  I  hate  crying ; 
I  hate  scenes !  Marriage  is  not  courtship ;  we 
must  live  like  our  neighbors  ;  and  real  life  is  a 
prosaic  thing." 

This  was  the  man  who  had  talked  to  her  of 
living  a  life  apart  from  the  ordinary  world,  who 
had  described  so  glowingly  the  magic  realm  in 
which  they  were  to  wander  hand  in  hand, 

"  Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought, 
Two  hearts  that  beat  aa  one." 

She  felt  a  thrill  of  indignation  under  her  pain ; 
but  neither  emotion  found  vent  in  her  answer. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  troublesome,  Talbot ;  I 
only  wanted  you  to  tell  me  if  I  was  in  the 
wrong." 

"  My  dear  child,  you  make  me  uncomfortable, 
for  I  am  not  conscious  of  having  found  fault  or 
complained." 

"  No,  no !  But — but — sometimes  I  am  afraid 
you  are  not  happy." 

"Happiness  is  a  relative  term,"  he  replied, 
lightly.  "Mouse,  I  am  capricious  and  fanciful ; 
don't  mind  my  moods.  You  are  a  good  little 
wife — the  best  a  man  ever  had — much  nicer  than 
I  deserve.  Now,  don't  pet  and  tease  yourself  and 
me ;  take  life  easily." 

"And — and — you  are  sure  you  are  not  disap 
pointed,  Talbot  ?" 

"How  disappointed?  My  dear,  I  love  you 
immensely ;  recollect  that." 

He  kissed  her,  and  Marian  tried  to  be  content. 
Indeed,  for  a  few  days  he  was  quite  lover-like 


dream  and  watching  it  grow  dim,  conscious  that  again.  Then  an  intense  weariness  of  Castle- 
she  is  slipping  down,  down  to  a  reality  so  bleak  maine  Park  and  all  its  stateliness  came  over 
and  dismal  that  it  can  hold  neither  sun  nor  him,  and  he  was  eager  to  be  gone.  He  would 


warmth,  yet  unable  to  arrest  her  course. 
For  a  time  she  had  hardly  been  conscious 


have  been   glad  to   leave  Marian  behind.     A 
brief  return  of  bachelor   freedom   looked  very 


wherein  the  change  consisted  or  what  was  want-  tempting;  but  for  once  he  controlled  his  wishes, 
ing,  but  she  had  gone  far  beyond  this.  Try  to  He  hated  to  see  any  body  suffer ;  it  was  a  pure- 
close  her  eyes  as  she  would,  they  showed  her  how  !  ly  selfish  sentiment,  though  he  disguised  it  under 
thin  the  glory  of  her  dream  had  become,  how  a  variety  of  fine  names,  as  the  rest  of  us  do  our 
bleak  and  cold  the  reality  looked  underneath.  foibles  and  mean  qualities. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


Ill 


He  proposed  the  journey  to  Baden,  and  Mar 
ian  agreed  to  it  readily.  She  would  much  rath 
er  have  remained  with  him  quietly  at  home  ;  she 
was  tired  of  change  and  excitement,  but  she  did 
not  even  hint  this. 

Grandma  Payne  was  inclined  to  set  the  new 
flitting  down  to  a  whim  of  Marian's,  and  to  blame 
her  somewhat  therefor. 

So  the  whirl  and  gayety  recommenced,  and 
Marian  endeavored  to  enjoy  and  to  believe  that 
the  greater  portion  of  her  listlessness,  her  shy 
ness,  her  troubled  hours,  arose  from  ill  health. 
Talbot  informed  her  that  this  was  the  case,  and 
recommended  her  with  gallingly  careless  kind 
ness  to  get  well  as  fast  as  possible,  lest  she 
should  fall  into  the  habit  of  delicacy ;  people 
often  did. 

There  were  many  solitary  hours  for  Marian,  in 
spite  of  the  gayeties  of  Baden — hours  in  which 
she  could  neither  read,  occupy  herself  with  her 
needle,  nor  dream.  Alas !  that  pleasant  faculty 
seemed  gone  entirely. 

Long  hours  when  she  could  do  nothing  but 
brood  over  her  brief  season  of  ecstatic  happiness, 
and  wonder  if  the  change  had  been  unavoidable 
— if  she  had  really  no  cause  to  fear  that  Talbot's 
affection  had  altered  —  if  this  which  had  come 
upon  her  was  the  fate  of  wives,  and  the  only 
reason  she  was  pained  because  she  had  been  a 
silly,  fanciful  girl,  with  false,  visionary  ideas  of 
life,  the  world,  marriage — all  those  things  which 
showed  so  differently  from  her  ideal. 

She  held  her  peace ;  she  was  gentle  and  lov 
ing  and  tender.  Many  more  fiery-spirited  wom 
en  would  have  been  indignant  at  her  patience. 
She  was  positively  grateful  when  Talbot  showed 
the  least  return  of  affectionate  attention.  But 
the  days  were  long  and  the  nights  longer,  and 
she  knew  that  night  after  night  her  husband's 
step  did  not  sound  in  the  room  next  hers  until 
almost  morning.  Fanny  St.  Simon  came  often 
to  see  her;  it  suited  that  young  lady  to  be  a 
great  deal  in  Lady  Castlemaine's  society,  to  ap 
pear  with  her  in  public,  to  have  people  speak  of 
their  intimacy,  and  she  carried  out  her  Avishes. 

Marian  was  fascinated  by  this  enchantress. 
In  her  heart  I  believe  Lady  Castlemaine  never 
liked  the  girl ;  but  that  wonderful  personal  mag 
netism  which  Fanny  possessed  was  too  strong 
for  Marian,  and  in  yielding  to  it  she  convinced 
herself  that  she  followed  the  dictates  of  affection. 
She  would  have  been  utterly  astounded  if  some 
power  could  have  revealed  the  truth,  and  shown 
her  that  affection  did  not  in  the  least  express  her 
feelings  for  Miss  St.  Simon. 

It  was  just  magnetism  which  was  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  woman's  influence  over  every  body 
she  came  across ;  when  it  met  a  strong  opposite 
current,  as  in  the  case  of  Miss  Devereux,  she 
was  cordially  disliked  and  dreaded.  I  think  no 
human  being  ever  had  any  half-feelings  toward 
her.  Many  a  time  Fanny  had  been  startled  by 


her  own  occult  power.  More  than  once,  through 
the  mere  exercise  of  her  will,  she  had  brought  to 
her  side  some  person  from  a  distance. 

"It  seemed  as  if  you  called  me,  and  I  must 
come,"  would  be  the  remark  which  caused  Fan 
ny  to  laugh,  and  yet  shiver  with  a  certain  enjoy 
able  dread. 

She  used  sometimes  to  tell  St.  Simon  that  she 
believed  she  was  possessed  by  the  devil,  and  fre 
quently  he  felt  inclined  to  agree  with  her,  and 
absolutely  dreaded  her  strange  intuitions. 

"I  hope, "her  relative  said  to  her,  soon  after 
the  arrival  of  the  Castlemaines,  "I  do  hope, 
Fan,  that  you  don't  mean  to  philander  about 
with  Sir  Talbot." 

"I  am  certain  I  do  not !  I  don't  know  what 
the  word  means,  but  I  should  think  something 
unpleasant ;  so  be  assured  I  have  no  intentions 
of  that  nature." 

"  It  was  all  very  well  in  the  old  days,"  pur 
sued  St.  Simon,  sententiously ;  "but  now  that 
we  are  deadly  respectable  and  have  a  basis,  it 
behooves  us  to  be  careful." 

"  Though  respectability  and  having  a  basis  do 
not  interfere  with  a  little  philandering  about  the 
roulette  tables  ?"  asked  Fanny,  in  the  tone  of  one 
actuated  by  a  laudable  desire  to  acquire  useful 
information. 

"Oh,  at  Baden  that  passes  unnoticed;  any 
body  not  actually  a  bishop  may  indulge  in  that 
way  here." 

"I'm  glad  our  basis  is  not  too  confined  in  its 
limits,"  said  Fanny. 

They  both  laughed.  It  was  easy  for  them  to 
laugh  and  be  amiable  in  these  days  of  success. 
St.  Simon  looked  younger  and  handsomer  than 
ever ;  Fanny  felt  proud  to  be  seen  with  him, 
and  he  cordially  returned  her  admiration.  But 
to  neither  was  the  season  so  peaceful  as  to  the 
Tortoise.  She  had  plenty  of  good  things  to  eat ; 
a  carriage  to  drive  about  in ;  quantities  of  dia 
monds  hidden  in  her  shoe ;  and  St.  Simon  never 
frightened  her  by  showing  a  disposition  to  give 
a  slight  pinch,  even  when  he  caught  a  glance  of 
the  obnoxious  tabatiere.  ,-•»'" 

Pleasant  days !  The  time  was  coming  when 
Fanny  St.  Simon  would  look  back  over  an  awful 
gulf,  and  each  separate  memory  of  that  period 
be  a  sufficient  torture  by  itself;  but  no  forbod- 
ing  haunted  her  now ;  perhaps  nothing  would 
have  been  changed  had  any  such  dismal  guest 
intruded.  She  was  proud  of  her  own  strength 
— secure  in  her  self-control ;  she  could  go  just 
so  far  and  no  farther  in  the  flowery  path  her  feet 
were  treading.  Life  had  not  held  so  many  sun 
shiny  hours  for  her  that  she  could  afford  to  fling 
away  these  sweetnesses  offered  with  a  liberal 
hand. 

A  whole  month  of  such  days,  brightening  al 
ways.  Castlemaine  was  the  most  submissive  and 
yielding  of  friends;  the  world  of  idle  people 
about  smiled  benignly  upon  Fanny ;  and  sever- 


112 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


al  times  she  took  the  trouble  to  inform  her  con 
science  that  she  meant  no  harm  to  any  body. 

Once  before  she  had  done  this :  in  that  case 
she  particularized  one  person ;  she  did  not  now. 
She  had  meant  no  harm  to  Koland  Spencer,  and 
she  intended  none  to  Marian. 

Fanny,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  enjoyment, 
could  not  lay  by  her  habit  of  looking  her  destiny 
steadily  in  the  face ;  her  ability  still  to  do  this 
unshrinkingly  was  a  proof  to  her  mind  that  the 
strong  will  and  indomitable  energy  which  had 
hitherto  been  her  support  were  not  likely  to  fail. 

She  knew  this  charmed  season  could  not  en 
dure  long ;  a  few  weeks,  and  Gregory  Alleyne 
would  return  ;  her  marriage  must  follow,  and 
life  drift  into  its  new  channels.  This  unrestrain 
ed  companionship  with  Castlemaine  was  only  a 
brief  interlude ;  existence  would  look  dull  enough 
when  she  lost  it,  but  Fanny  had  no  mind  to  fore 
go  one  atom  of  its  pleasantness  on  that  account. 
The  enchanted  summer  should  be  stretched  to 
its  uttermost  limit,  nor  would  she  deprive  herself 
of  a  single  ray  of  the  brightness  through  a  cow 
ardly  fear  of  after-suffering.  Suffer  as  she  might, 
the  memory  of  these  days  would  always  be  some 
thing  to  look  back  upon — better  than  to  recall 
the  past,  aud  find  it  all  an  unloving,  unlovable 
blank. 

Never  in  her  most  insane  moments  of  anguish, 
bitterness,  and  wrath,  which  had  followed  in  the 
darkness  after  that  Italian  idyl,  had  she  regret 
ted  its  existence.  Mad  as  she  was  against  Fate, 
she  never  reproached  the  stem  guide  for  hav 
ing  flung  that  transitory  happiness  in  her  way 
and  then  wrested  it  from  her.  She  had  always 
told  her  soul  that  if  to  forget  her  pain  it  were 
necessary  to  hlot  out  that  love,  she  would  not 
accept  peace  at  such  a  price. 

She  had  not  changed.  She  knew  that  very 
soon  she  must  let  Talbot  Castlemaine  go.  She 
did  not  deceive  herself,  as  many  women  would 
have  done — even  women  who  knew  the  world 
and  men  as  well  as  she.  After  her  marriage 
there  could  never  be  a  return,  not  even  an  ap 
proach,  to  a  season  like  this ;  there  was  no  dan 
ger  now,  but  there  would  be  then.  Fanny  did 
not  propose  to  run  risks  with  the  station  she  was 
to  assume.  She  would  have  all  that  it  could 
give  her — pomp,  grandeur,  adulation ;  it  was  a 
poor  triumph,  but  the  future  held  nothing  else. 
She  should  not  wish  to  see  Talbot  Castlemaine 
often;  she  would  rather  this  present  episode 
were  the  last  time  their  paths  led  very  near  one 
another.  Perhaps  no  human  being  ever  read 
this  man's  character  so  clearly  as  she.  He 
would  always  be  searching  after  new  gods  and  an 
unattainable  happiness.  In  the  course  he  led— 
so  purposeless,  so  aimless — his  weaknesses  and 
follies  would  grow,  and  dissipation  take  a  deeper 
hold.  But,  at  least  in  his  soul,  her  place  would 
always  be  different  from  that  held  by  any  other 
woman  ;  and  in  looking  hack  across  the  world 


which  separated  them,  she  should  find  pleasure 
in  remembering  this. 

Alleyne  considered  it  his  duty  to  live  in  Amer 
ica  ;  she  would  go — as  well  there  as  anywhere. 
It  did  not  trouble  her  much  to  think  of  her  mar 
ried  life,  cold  as  it  looked,  because  at  this  time 
all  objects  and  events  caught  some  rays  of  the 
golden  light  which  flooded  her  way.  It  would 
be  an  empty  life — she  knew  that.  Why,  even 
the  old  days  of  poverty,  of  make-shifts,  of  strug 
gles  and  artifices,  had  their  interest ;  there  was 
constantly  something  to  be  done,  to  look  forward 
to.  Hereafter — nothing;  she  would  be  a  grande 
dame — her  youth  would  soon  desert  her,  and  ex 
istence  show  as  dull  as  a  beach  from  which  the 
tide  had  gone  out. 

There  would  be  a  great  house  in  town  to  man 
age,  balls  to  give,  society  to  direct ;  a  great 
house  in  the  country  to  fill  with  guests — inter 
ludes  of  Newport  and  Washington ;  occasional 
visits  to  Europe,  seasons  in  Mayfair — presenta 
tion  at  courts ;  decorous,  heavy  festivities  among 
embassadors  and  dignitaries.  Fanny  yawned 
wearily  at  the  prospect.  The  thought  of  the 
stage,  the  singing  at  a  cafg  chantant,  which  had 
one  time  seemed  imminent,  would  have  held 
more  variety  and  sensation.  Absolutely  nothing 
to  do,  nothing  to  scheme  for — be  interested  in ; 
nothing  to  hide,  no  plea  to  work  out  in  the  dark. 
No  witty,  disreputable  people  either ;  Alleyne 
would  always  have  deadly  respectable  associates 
about.  Not  even  the  wearisome  platitudes  of 
flirtation,  with  which  many  women  solaced  them 
selves  ;  they  would  be  more  tiresome  than  any 
thing  else.  Fanny  saw  herself  reduced  to  good 
works,  charity  schemes,  and  laughed  at  the  vis 
ion. 

"  It  will  be  awful,"  she  thought.  "  Oh  dear ! 
if  St.  Simon  had  never  come  back !" 

But  she  did  not  shrink  from  the  prospect ; 
she  loved  wealth  and  ease  and  grandeur  as  well 
as  ever. 

"  One  must  be  wretched,"  she  continued ; 
"it  is  better  to  be  wretched  in  a  velvet  dress 
with  diamonds." 

Then  she  cried  a  little,  then  remembered  she 
was  a  fool.  The  dreariness  had  not  come  yet ; 
her  charmed  season  was  not  over.  Let  the  fut 
ure  take  care  of  iftelf;  it  was  useless  to  live 
more  than  one  day  at  a  time. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  SIGNER'S  DESCENDANT. 

IT  was  August — near  the  close — when  Mrs. 
Pattaker  felt  that  duty  required  her  to  honor 
Baden  with  her  presence  for  a  week.  She  car 
ried  Miss  Langois — not  to  mention  Miss  Lan- 
gois'  wonderful  toilets — and  several  of  mascu 
line  servitors  in  her  train.  The  planet  Saturn 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


113 


would  as  soon  have  thought  of  taking  a  journey 
round  his  orbit  unattended  by  his  numerous 
moons,  as  Mrs.  Pattaker  to  set  forth  \vitl\put  a 
fitting  group  of  satellites.  The  male  Pattaker 
always  went  too ;  but  he  was  not  a  satellite — he 
was  a  pincushion.  I  mean,  that  he  served  for 
Mrs.  Pattaker  to  stab  with  sharp  words  when 
she  had  neuralgia.  When  other  people  would 
be  called  ill-natured,  Mrs.  Pattaker  was  neural 
gic.  She  often  suffered  in  this  way,  and  then 
the  male  Pattaker  was  made  a  pincushion  of.  It 
is  well  to  be  of  use  in  the  world ;'  and  I  suppose 
that  old  object  would  never  have  been  of  the 
slightest,  if  his  gorgeous  spouse  had  not  devoted 
him  to  this  convenient  purpose. 

Miss  Langois  had  her  use  too ;  Mrs.  Pattaker 
had  no  idea  of  letting  her  satellites  remain  idle. 
Miss  Langois'  business  was  to  go  about  with  her 
nostrils  constantly  distended  on  the  watch  for 
odors  ;  the  worse  the  scent,  the  more  urgent  was 
Miss  Langois'  necessity  to  put  her  nose  into  the 
midst  of  it.  Miss  Langois'  nose  was  long  and 
thin  ;  it  did  its  duty  so  well  that  it  was  apparent 
she  had  been  brought  on  earth  expressly  to  fol 
low  this  proboscis  about,  and  give  an  account  of 
the  bad  smells  it  found. 

The  other  constant  satellites — two  or  three  of 
the  jubsy  men — were  barkers.  When  Miss  Lan 
gois'  sensitive  nose  "  pointed "  to  a  bad  odor, 
they  gave  tongue,  at  Mrs.  Pattaker's  signal,  ei 
ther  softly,  or  in  loud  accents,  as  she  command 
ed.  It  was  noticeable  that  when  these  were 
most  occupied,  the  pincushion  was  last  afflicted. 
When  the  nose  was  at  fault,  and  the  barkers 
lolled  at  their  ease,  then  the  pincushion  got  his 
fill. 

This  is  allegorical,  or  symbolical,  or  any  thing 
else  fine  you  please ;  it  is  much  nicer  than  ac 
cusing  Mrs.  Pattaker  of  being  a  scandal-monger, 
and  calling  these  satellites  her  associates. 

So  the  descendant  of  the  illustrious  Signer 
came  to  Baden ;  and  she  was  very  happy  to  see 
St.  Simon  again,  and  exceedingly  gracious  to 
Fanny — so  gracious,  in  fact,  that  Fanny  felt  sure 
she  meant  mischief;  but  this  did  not  matter. 
She  had  soared  up  out  of  Mrs.  Pattaker's  reach, 
would  be  a  richer  and  more  important  person 
than  even  that  stately  female,  and  could  smile  at 
her  ease  on  any  attempts  at  molestation  from  this 
quarter. 

Mrs.  Pattaker,  still  possessed  by  the  demon  of 
cordiality,  renewed  her  acquaintance  with  Castle- 
maine,  and  rushed  into  transports  of  admiration 
for  Marian.  Talbot  irreverently  called  her  an 
old  hyena,  and  dubbed  Miss  Langois  a  jackdaw  ; 
and  somebody  told  them  of  it. 

Each  passed  slightingly  over  what  had  been 
said  of  herself,  but  was  indignant  that  her  friend 
should  be  stigmatized  by  an  odious  epithet. 
Miss  Lnngois  knew  that  if  she  expected  to  retain 
her  position  near  the  great  lady  she  must  bring 
that  long  nose  into  requisition  without  loss  of 
8 


time,  and  gave  a  sniff  preparatory  to  setting  out 
on  her  search. 

There  were  people  who  had  begun  to  look  sig 
nificant  at  the  intimacy  between  Fanny  and  Cas- 
tlemaine,  refusing,  with  the  obstinacy  character 
istic  of  human  nature,  to  include  Marian  therein, 
although  Miss  St.  Simon  was  so  much  seen  in  her 
society. 

Before  three  days  were  gone  Miss  Langois' 
nose  had  smelled  out  a  great  deal ;  the  barkers 
gave  tongue,  very  softly,  but  incessantly,  an3 
Mrs.  Pattaker  began  to  deplore  the  fact  that  dear 
Miss  St.  Simon  should  be  so  careless  of  her  new 
position  and  lofty  prospects  as  to  indulge  in  a 
flirtation  with  a  married  man. 

But,  beyond  a  few  musty  dowagers  and  un 
willing  servants  of  Vesta,  nobody  seemed  much 
interested  as  to  the  terms  which  existed  between 
Miss  St.  Simon  and  the  Castlemaincs.  The 
world  at  Baden  was  too  busy  amusing  itself  to  be 
ill-natured,  and  was  much  more  excited  about 
the  re-appearance  of  the  Pole  who  had  broken  the 
bank  two  seasons  in  succession  than  in  regard 
to  any  young  woman's  flirtations,  especially  when 
conducted  after  an  old-fashioned,  orthodox  man 
ner. 

Mrs.  Pattaker  felt  that  Baden  was  a  very 
wicked  place.  If  the  Empress  Augusta  did  not 
insist  on  this  being  the  last  season  of  the  gam 
bling-tables,  she,  for  one,  should  consider  the 
empress's  lofty  protestations  of  piety  no  better 
than  hypocrisy,  and  she  should  sny  it  at  any  risk  ; 
not  even  from  martyrdom  would  she  shrink  in 
the  performance  of  her  duty. 

Following  this  dubious  light,  which,  I  think,  has 
led  more  people  straight  to  purgatory  than  any 
sin  they  recognized  as  such,  Mrs.  Pattaker  in 
dulged  in  some  hints  to  Lady  Castlemaine  one 
day  when  the  two  chanced  to  sit  alone  in  the  lat- 
ter's  salon. 

The  Signer's  descendant  had  been  talking  so 
enthusiastically  of  the  affection  she  had  conceived 
for  her  new  acquaintance,  that  Marian  remained 
quite  conscience-stricken  at  not  experiencing  a 
fervent  outgoing  of  enthusiasm  in  return.  Her 
cheeks  really  burned  to  remember  how  Fanny 
St.  Simon  had  "taken  off"  the  great  lady  only 
the  night  before,  and  how  heartily  she  (Marian) 
had  joined  in  Talbot's  enjoyment  of  the  represen 
tation. 

She  said  something  as  intelligibly  as  possible 
about  Mrs.  Pattaker's  goodness,  and  rated  her 
more  highly  than  she  deserted. 

"No,  my  dear  Lady  Castlemaine,  no!"  cried 
Mrs.  Pattaker.  She  was  fond  of  giving  people 
their  titles,  and  when  addressing  her  own  daugh 
ter  managed  to  put  "  duchesse"  at  least  twice  in 
each  sentence.  "  That  I  do  not !  I  never  flat 
ter  ;  indeed,  I  am  aware  that  I  am  too  blunt  and 
plain-spoken;  it  is  a  family  failing.  But  I  am 
clear-sighted,  that  I  will  admit  too  ;  it  is  no  mer 
it  of  mine — a  family  inheritance  also !  Perhaps 


Ill 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


you  knew,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine,  that  one  of 
the  most  illustrious  members  of  my  race — one 
of  the  immortal  signers — by  that  very  bluntness 
and  clear-sightedness  probably  saved  the  then  in 
fant  band  of  glorious  freemen  from  disagreements 
which — whose  possible  results,  I  may  say,  make 
the  enlightened  mind  shudder  to  contemplate." 

Marian  acknowledged  that  she  had  already 
heard  something  of  this  from  Mrs.  Pattaker. 

"  Exactly,"  said  that  lady.  "  I  love  my 
country.  I  glorify  my  century — few  do  that! 
Where  were  we  ?" 

"You — you  were  speaking  of  some  ancestor — 
a — a  pledger,"  faltered  Marian,  getting  the  word 
wrong  in  her  anxiety  to  escape  a  continuance  of 
the  memoirs  of  this  remarkable  person. 

"The  Signer,"  amended  Mrs.  Pattaker. 
"No,  no,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine :  it  is  your  in 
nate  modesty  causes  you  to  say  this ;  it  was  of 
you  I  was  speaking,  of  my  recognition  of  your 
worth,  your  gentleness,  your  true  womanly  qual 
ities.  I  wish  such  shining  virtues  were  more 
common  among  young  ladies  of  our  time.  I 
wish  that  sweet  girl,  Miss  St.  Simon — poor  Fan 
ny! — had  more  of  them." 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  poor  Fanny  ?'  She  seems 
to  me  a  very  happy  person,"  returned  Marian. 

"Yes  —  oh  yes;  still,  I  repeat,  poor  Fanny. 
Ill  brought  up,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine.  St. 
Simon  is  charming;  lie  has  now  a  recognized 
position ;  but  I  fancy  much  of  Fanny's  life  was 
spent  in  a  world  of  which  we,  know  nothing." 

The  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  was  delicious  ; 
it  suggested  royal  palaces  at  the  very  least. 

"Ah,"  Marian  said,  indifferently,  all  her  en 
ergies  concentrated  in  a  fervent  wish  that  the 
woman  would  go  away. 

"Yes,  a  sweet  girl;  I  am  fond  of  her.  But 
— to  you  I  speak  freely,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine 
— not  a  woman  to  have  for  an  intimate  friend. 
What  I  say  will  go  no  farther — not  a  woman  to 
admit  too  unrestrainedly  into  the  inner  sanctua 
ry  of  home.  A  hopeless  flirt,  dangerous  indeed 
— you  understand,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine." 

"I  have  never  seen  her  flirt,"  Marian  replied, 
quietly.  "You  know  she  is  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried." 

"And  a  wonderful  match,  dear  Lady  Castle 
maine.  Millions !  position !  I  own  it  surprised 
me  in  Mr.  Alleyne." 

"Miss  St.  Simon  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
fascinating  young  ladies  I  ever  met,"  Marian 
said,  coldly. 

"Just  that!  But  ah!  the  word— the  word, 
dear  Lady  Castlemaine!  Circe  was  fascinating, 
I  suppose,  and  Medea,  and — and  the  serpent  in 
Eden,"  added  Mrs.  Pattaker,  taking  refuge  in  re 
calling  a  personage  of  very  remote  antiquity  in 
deed,  as  her  historical  lore  began  to  fail. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  it,  since  you 
say  you  are  fond  of  her,"  Marian  said,  coloring 
furiously,  shocked  at  her  presumption  in  lectur 


ing  a  woman  so  much  her  elder,  but  forced  to 
speak  by  her  clear  sense  of  justice  and  right. 

Mrs.  Pattaker  was  startled.  She  had  not  the 
habit  of  being  called  to  order ;  but  did  not  feel 
disposed  to  take  offense.  In  certain  ways  she 
was  no  fool  either,  and  got  out  of  the  difficulty 
well  enough. 

"  I  say  it  to  you  because  I  am  interested  in 
Fanny;  because  I  hope  your  advice  may  have 
an  influence  upon  her,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine." 

"I  have  lived  a  very  retired  life,"  Marian 
said,  "and  know  little  of  the  world.  Miss  St. 
Simon  could  scarcely  find  a  more  incompetent 
mentor — if  she  wanted  one,  and  I  felt  inclined  to 
undertake  the  task." 

"Ah  —  intuition!"  cried  Mrs.  Pattaker. 
"Dear  Lady  Castlemaine,  in  your  heart  you  do 
not  approve  of  her." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Pattaker,  I  can  not  allow 
you  unintentionally  to  misinterpret  my  words," 
Marian  said,  with  a  firmness  which  astonished 
herself.  ' '  I  told  you  I  thought  Miss  St.  Simon 
fascinating.  I  have  not  known  her  long  enough 
to  use  any  other  word.  I  think  I  am  slow  at 
forming  either  real  friendships  or  dislikes." 

"  Most  admirably  put,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine 
— admirably.  Well,  I  have  done  my  duty.  I 
would  not  go  away  from  Baden  without  saying 
what  I  have.  Dear  Lady  Castlemaine,  if  you 
hate  me  forever,  I  must  add  that  more  than  one 
young  wife  has  paid  dearly  for  finding  Fanny  St. 
Simon  fascinating." 

The  sensitive  color  rushed  again  to  Marian's 
cheeks.  She  paused  an  instant  before  speaking. 
Mrs.  Pattaker  waited  rather  uneasily  to  hear 
what  was  coming. 

"So  you  leave  Baden  soon," said  Lady  Cas 
tlemaine,  composedly,  taking  up  the  conversation 
where  it  had  dropped  when  Mrs.  Pattaker  burst 
into  her  confidence  regarding  Miss  St.  Simon,  t 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,"  she  replied,  feel 
ing  hopelessly  checkmated  by  this  girlish  creat 
ure,  who  blushed  if  one  looked  at  her.  "Shall 
we  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  Paris  this 
autumn  ?" 

"It  is  not  quite  decided.  I  think,  however, 
we  shall  go  there." 

Mrs.  Pattaker  rose ;  her  dignity  was  a  good 
deal  disturbed.  A  sensation  which  in  ordinary 
mortals  is  called  "spitefulness"  helped  to  quick 
en  the  lymphatic  current  in  her  veins. 

"I  am  so  very,  very  glad!  Sir  Talbot  was 
always  a  favorite  of  mine  —  even  in  his  gay, 
wild  days.  Young  men  will  have  such  a  season, 
you  know." 

"I  don't  think  I  know  much  about  young 
men,"  said  Marian. 

"Nor  young  women,  I  fear,"  returned  -Mrs. 
Pattaker.  "My  dear,  I  shall  soon  be  an  old 
woman  "  (she  tried  her  best  to  look  thirty-five  as 
she  spoke).  "  I  have  not  in  years  been  so  much 
attracted  by  any  young  lady  as  I  am  by  you." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


115 


"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so,"  replied 
Marian,  again  suffering  from  a  pang  of  con 
science,  and  pausing,  dreadfully  embarrassed. 

"No,  it  is  only  justice.  That  sweet  woman 
who  was  once  empress  of  the  French  used  to  say 
that  my  intuitions  were  prophetic.  You  know, 
perhaps,  that  the  Tuileries  was  almost  like  home 
to  me." 

Marian  had  heard  from  Fanny  St.  Simon  of 
Mrs.  Pattaker's  struggles  to  gain  a  foothold  at 
court ;  of  the  old  stories  about  gifts  of  valuable 
laces  and  gems  to  sundry  noble  ladies  of  influ 
ence  there ;  of  snubs  and  slights  which  had  been 
gracefully  passed  over ;  so  all  she  could  do  was 
to  look  more  confused  than  ever. 

Her  blushes  and  hesitation  gave  Mrs.  Pattaker 
full  possession  of  her  courage  again. 

"I  wish  you  would  remember  what  I  have 
said,  dear  Lady  Castlemaine,"  she  continued, 
shaking  out  her  plumage,  and  looking  grand  and 
imposing. 

"Oh  yes;  you  have  promised  to  be  glad  to 
see  me  when  I  come  to  Paris,"  said  Marian, 
nervous  as  a  school-girl,  but  with  a  firm  purpose 
of  not  allowing  Mrs.  Pattaker  to  stray  back  to 
dangerous  ground. 

"  You  know  I  shall  be  that ;  but  it  is  not  what 
I  meant.  Dear  Lady  Castlemaine,  I  wish  your 
friend,  Miss  Devereux,  were  here.  You  are  very 
young ;  don't  be  offended.  You  stand  in  need 
of  a  friend's  advice." 

The  blushes  faded  again.  Marian  was  as  com 
posed  as  a  veteran  could  have  been. 

"If  you  will  kindly  tell  me  in  what,"  said  she, 
in  a  clear,  slow  voice, "I  will  ask  my  husband  to 
advise  me :  no  one  could  do  it  so  well." 

"Ah — yes — in  a  general  way !  My  dear,  the 
sentiment  does  you  honor;  but  in  a  case  like 
this—" 

Mrs.  Pattaker  spoke  in  dashes,  and  left  her 
sentence  unfinished,  not  from  embarrassment, 
but  to  give  her  words  more  effect.  Perhaps  this 
habit  was  also  a  heritage  from  the  Signer. 

"A"<1  what  is  this  particular  instance  in  which 
my  husband's  counsel  could  not  serve  me  ?"  Mar 
ian  asked,  her  voice  ringing  out  very  distinctly, 
low  as  she  spoke. 

"Dear  Lady  Castlemaine,  when  I  have  al 
ready  explained — it  is  difficult — ah,  duty  is  not 
easy.  I  wish  Miss  Devereux  were  here. " 

"I  prefer  to  submit  the  matter  to  Sir  Talbot's 
judgment,  if  you  will  tell  me  in  what  it  is  I  need 
advice,"  said  Marian,  determined  now  to  have  the 
matter  out,  since  Mrs.  Pattaker  had  disregarded 
all  her  efforts  to  get  away  from  the  subject. 

"My  dear  Lady  Castlemaine,"  returned  the 
other,  in  her  most  persuasive  tone,  "you  could 
not  say  to  Sir  Talbot  that — that  you  feared  Miss 
St.  Simon  might  prove  dangerous  to — to  domes 
tic  peace." 

Marian  took  advantage  of  her  pause  to  make 
answer, 


"  No,  I  could  not  do  that,  because  I  have  no 
such  fear." 

"Well,  well,"  sighed  Mrs.  Pattaker.  "Let 
that  part  go !  You  could  not  easily  say  to  him, 
either,  that  people  were  talking — the  world  is  so 
ill-natured — that  they  had  not  forgotten  old  days 
and  past  flirtations.  In  short,  dear  Lady  Cas 
tlemaine,  you  can  do  nothing  but  be  on  your 
guard. " 

Marian's  head  swam,  and  there  was  a  sicken 
ing  sensation  at  her  heart.  She  fixed  her  eyes 
full  on  Mrs.  Pattaker. 

"You  mean  kindly,  no  doubt,"  she  said; 
"but  even  from  Miss  Devereux,  my  dearest 
friend,  I  could  not  permit  such  suggestions. 
Let  us  consider  this  conversation  at  an  end  for 
ever." 

Mrs.  Pattaker  was  as  much  astounded  as  if 
she  had  seen  a  lamb  turn  into  a  lion.  She  re 
peated  her  assurances  of  affection,  begged  Mar 
ian  not  to  misconstrue  actions  animated  by  a 
sense  of  duty,  talked  of  a  future  meeting,  and 
got  away. 

Miss  Langois  chanced  to  fall  within  reach  on 
the  great  lady's  arrival  at  her  lodgings.  The 
half-hour  that  correct  virgin  passed  would  mako 
stones  weep,  if  its  secrets  could  be  set  down. 

I  am  afraid  if  Mrs.  Pattaker  had  heard  of 
Lady  Castlemaine's  receiving  chastisement  at 
the  hands  of  her  husband,  or  undergoing  the 
thumb-screw,  or  any  other  playful  mode  of  tor 
ture  whereby  mediaeval  spouses  could  bring  re 
bellious  wives  to  order,  or  discreetly  punish  un 
loved  ones,  she  would  have  considered  the  young 
woman  properly  rewarded.  Still,  pity  lingered 
like  a  white  dove  in  Mrs.  Pattaker's  breast ;  it 
prompted  her  to  talk  much  of  this  matter  wher 
ever  she  went.  Her  sympathy  for  Lady  Castle 
maine  was  so  excessive  that  she  wanted  it  shared 
by  all  her  acquaintances. 

After  a  time  she  encountered  Miss  Devereux, 
and  told  her  tale ;  and  on  this  occasion  she  found 
an  attentive  auditor,  although  Helen  affected  to 
treat  the  story  lightly. 

Left  to  herself,  Marian's  last  effort  at  self-con 
trol  gave  way;  neither  pride  nor  anger  could 
support  her  any  longer. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

SIR   TALBOT. 

ALL  his  life  Talbot  Castlemaine  had  been  want 
ing  something  out  of  his  reach.  Whether  the 
thing  were  of  importance  or  almost  valueless,  did 
not  matter ;  the  fact  that  it  looked  unattainable 
seemed  enough  to  rouse  in  him  a  desire  of  posses 
sion  as  frenzied  as  a  temporary  madness. 

When  he  first  met  Marian  Payne,  had  he  been 
entirely  free  to  flirt  with  or  make  love  to  her,  he 
would  probably  have  amused  himself  for  a  week, 


116 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


and  then  forgotten  her.  But  at  that  time  it 
appeared  absolutely  necessary  he  should  marry 
Miss  Devereux's  fortune,  and  the  sight  of  Mar 
ian  standing  aloof,  with  her  beseeching  eyes  and 
pure  face,  made  her  show  like  some  angel  of 
light,  under  whose  tenderness  and  influence,  if  he 
could  but  have  them,  his  own  thwarted,  warped 
existence  might  struggle  into  other  paths. 

Marriage  had  proved  a  very  tiresome  business, 
and  the  wild  passion  which  preceded  it  now  look 
ed  as  unreal  as  a  dream.  He  pitied  himself  for 
this.  He  said  to  Fanny  St.  Simon, 

"Why  couldn't  she  have  forced  me  to  love 
her  ?  It  was  a  pretty  fancy  —  if  she  had  only 
known  how  to  make  it  something  more. "  . 

Fanny  sympathized  with  or  laughed  at  him, 
according  to  her  mood.  A  kaleidoscope  could 
not  have  been  more  changeable  than  she  was  at 
this  time,  or  a  child  more  fascinated  with  its 
changing  hues  and  shapes  than  Castlemaine  by 
her  caprices.  Sometimes  she  drove  him  nearly 
insane  with  jealousy,  till  he  risked  becoming  ri 
diculous,  and  almost  risked  compromising  her. 
Sometimes  she  let  him  drift  into  tender,  senti 
mental  talk,  and  when  his  lips  were  ready  to 
burst  into  the  passionate  declarations  which  his 
eyes  and  voice  had  already  been  telling,  she 
would  force  herself  back  to  common  sense,  and 
torment  him  with  jests  and  badinage.  He  suf 
fered,  that  was  plain  enough.  She  was  glad  to 
see  him  suffer,  though  all  the  while  it  wrung  her 
heart  with  fierce  pangs  to  cause  the  pain. 

It  was  playing  with  fire,  this  game,  and  Fanny 
knew  it ;  but  she  was  bold  enough  and  dexterous 
enough  to  escape  scorching.  She  would  enjoy 
these  feverish  delights  to  the  utmost ;  they  must 
end  soon — end  forever.  She  had  no  mind  to  see 
Talbot  Castlemaine  again  for  years.  In  the 
gilded  dullness  of  her  wedded  life  she  would  at 
least  have  these  memories  wherewith  to  keep  her 
heart  from  starvation.  The  mingled  sweetness 
and  agony  of  recalling  this  past  would  be  more 
endurable  than  to  have  been  forced  to  look  back 
over  a  blank  record  of  disappointment.  She  was 
glad  to  have  met  him — glad  to  feel  that  he  loved 
her ;  she  would  spare  neither  him  nor  herself. 

His  mornings  were  spent  in  her  salon;  his 
engagements  were  all  formed  with  reference  to 
meeting  her;  even  the  powerful  attraction  "of 
play  sunk  into  insignificance  by  the  side  of  this 
enthrallment. 

He  had  been  reading  poetry  to  her  one  day, 
the  lays  of  some  of  those  modern  marvels  who 
are  promised  immortality  by  their  admirers.  As 
he  looked  up  from  the  book,  he  caught  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face  with  a  sad,  wistful  expres 
sion. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  he  asked. 

"About  what  you  were  reading,  I  suppose," 
she  answered. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  Now,  confess!  It  is  a 
shame  to  let  me  waste  my  abilities  in  this  way." 


"I  was  thinking  what  pleasant  weeks  these 
have  been, "she  answered,  slowly,  her  eyes  still 
on  his  face — those  marvelous  eyes  which  were  a 
beauty  worth  all  the  regular  features  and  pretty 
coloring  of  other  women. 

"Pleasant!"  he  echoed;  "they  have  been  a 
taste  of  heaven ! " 

She  smiled — one  of  her  slow,  dreamy  smiles. 

"But  they  are  almost  ended,"  she  sighed. 

He  gave  the  table  beside  him  a  push  which 
nearly  tilted  it  over. 

".Why  do  you  speak  of  that  ?  why  do  you 
make  me  think  of  it  ?"  he  said. 

"Because  you  insisted  on  hearing  my 
thoughts," she  answered.  "I'm  a  truthful  soul, 
when  it  costs  nothing." 

"So  it  costs  you  nothing  to  look  forward  to 
the  end  of  these  weeks  ?"  he  demanded,  scowling 
in  a  way  that  would  have  rendered  another  man 
hideous,  but  which  deepened  the  expression  of 
his  Greek  face  into  a  force  and  intensity  that  left 
him  handsomer  than  ever. 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  It  costs  you  nothing?"  he  repeated. 

"  Very  well ;  say  it  does  not — what  then  ?"  she 
asked,  brusquely.  "  Sir  Talbot,  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  having  my  friends  scowl  at  me,  or  my 
enemies  either,  for  that  matter." 

"I  don't  know  in  which  catalogue  to  rank 
myself,  when  you  show  so  horribly  heartless," 
returned  he,  smiling  now,  but  looking  vexed 
enough  still. 

"That  sounds  like  a  phrase  out  of  a  sensation 
novel,"  returned  she,  teasingly.  "Nobody  is 
horribly  heartless — and  if  I  were,  remember,  you 
would  not  be  the  person  with  a  right  to  com 
plain." 

She  looked  so  tantalizingly  beautiful,  and  she 
said  the  words  with  such  smiling  calmness,  that 
Castlemaine  was  furious. 

' '  What  are  you  muttering  ?"  she  asked.  "  Bad 
words,  I  think.  ,  Now,  in  the  novels  I  was  speak 
ing  of  the  English  girls  appear  to  like  being 
sworn  at;  the  men  all  swear,  from  princes  of 
the  blood  down  to  the  baronets ;  but  please  to 
recollect  I  am  an  American,  and  not  accustomed 
to  such  sweet  frankness  of  speech." 

"You  would  drive  a  saint  out  of  his  senses 
when  you  are  in  one  of  these  moods, "  cried  he. 

"I  am,  in  a  very  good  mood,"  she  replied. 
"It  is  you  who  are  ill-natured  and  fractious." 

"I  don't  think  those  words  quite  express  my 
feelings,"  he  said,  his  voice  sounding  injured  and 
plaintive.  "You  tell  me  suddenly  that  these 
pleasant  days  must  end ;  you  say  it  as  smiling 
ly  as  if  it  were  the  most  cheering  news  possible : 
do  you  expect  me  to  look  enthusiastically  de 
lighted?" 

"They  have  been  nice  days,  have  they  not?" 
she  returned.  Her  head  drooped ;  her  eyes  met 
his,  misty  and  soft.  "Ah,  well,  nothing  lasts 
forever  in  this  world." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


117 


"But  you  are  sorry?  —  own  that  you  are 
sorry."  „ 

"I  don't  think  I  need  say  it,"  she  answered. 
"You  know  I  am  sorry,  dear  friend;  but  that 
changes  nothing." 

"  At  least  it  is  a  little  comfort  to  hear  you  ad 
mit  it.  Oh,  Fanny,  what  an  odious  muddle  life 
is!" 

"Life  is  pretty  much  what  we  make  it,  I 
suppose.  At  least  let  us  have  fortitude  enough 
not  to  moan  over  what  we  have  deliberately 
chosen." 

"I  deny  that  we  do  choose!  All  sorts  of 
things  and  events  unite,  and  are  too  strong  for 
us.  Some  apparently  unimportant  move ;  some 
thing  we  have  done  without  the  slightest  reflec 
tion  forges  the  chains  which  hold  us  fast,"  he 
exclaimed. 

"I  don't  perceive  how  that  removes  the  re 
sponsibility  from  our  own  shoulders.  But  there 
is  no  good  talking  in  this  metaphysical  way ;  it 
is  morbid  and  unhealthy." 

"There  is  no  good  in  any  thing,  I  think,"  he 
said,  drearily.  "What  made  you  so  suddenly 
bring  me  down  to  reality,  by  speaking  as  if  we 
were  to  have  no  more  of  these  delightful  morn 
ings  ?" 

"Because  the  end  has  nearly  come,"  she  an 
swered. 

"The  end?" 

"Word  it  as  yon  will;  at  least  I  am  going 
away  from  Baden." 

' '  Going  away.     Where  ? '' 

"You  will  be  cross  if  I  tell  you.  Still — well, 
as  you  have  no  right  to  be  cross,  I  don't  see  why 
I  should  hesitate." 

"Perhaps  at  giving  me  pain;  would  that 
make  you  hesitate  ?" 

"  But  some  one  of  those  wise  metaphysicians 
we  were  emulating  pronounces  pain  a  figment 
of  the  imagination." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  when  you  are  going  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  answered,  provokingly.  "In 
a  few  days  Mr.  Alleyne  will  land  at  Havre." 

Castlemaine  started  to  his  feet  with  an  angry 
gesture.  He  began  to  mutter  something — her 
eyes  stopped  him. 

"It  is  too  early  for  Paris,"  she  went  on,  as 
easily  as  if  he  had  shown  no  emotion  ;  "  so  I  am 
going  to  stay  at  Creuxville  for  a  while ;  Mr.  Al 
leyne  will  come  there  too." 

He  sat  down  again,  pulling  at  his  mustache  in 
an  impatient  way.  Fanny  played  with  the  fringe 
on  her  dress,  looking  straight  before  her.  There 
was  a  brief  silence,  during  which  Castlemaine's 
eager  eyes  studied  her  countenance;  but  she 
willed  to  keep  it  passive,  so  he  could  form  no 
conclusion  as  to  her  thoughts. 

"I  am  not  cross,"  ho  exclaimed,  abruptly ; 
"as  you  said,  I  have  no  right!" 

"None,"  she  replied,  giving  him  a  rather  de 
fiant  glance. 


"No  right,"  he  repeated ;  "but  oh,  Fanny,  I 
am  the  most  miserable  man  alive!" 

How  the  deep,  quivering  voice  struck  home  to 
her  heart !  How  the  pale,  passionate  beauty  of 
his  face  made  a  glory  before  her  eyes  which  fair 
ly  dizzied  her  soul !  But  she  was  strong,  able 
to  speak  jestingly,  to  remember  that  not  one 
step  beyond  the  law  she  had  laid  down  must  he 
go,  even  now.  Let  him  complain  if  he  would — 
it  did  not  seem  a  weakness  to  her,  as  it  must 
have  done  in  another  man ;  she  pitied  him,  yet 
his  pain  was  a  triumph,  even  while  it  hurt  her. 

"Luckily  Baden  possesses  hosts  of  attractions 
in  itself,"  she  said ;  "you  will  scarcely  have  time 
to  miss  me."  > 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  cried.  "Do  you 
wish  to  drive  me  mad — hear  me  rave  like  a  lu 
natic  ?" 

"Indeed  I  do  not ;  I  have  no  taste  for  private 
theatricals." 

"Going  away!  Why,  I  feel  as  a  wretch 
might  who  was  listening  to  his  death-warrant. 
I  had  forgotten  these  days  must  end ! " 

He  spoke  truthfully ;  he  felt  every  word. 

"I  warned  you  not  to  forget,"  she  replied. 

"And  you  can  talk  calmly  about  it;  you — " 

"My  friend,  Swinburne's  poems  have  turned 
your  brain !  Heigh-ho !  I  shall  have  no  more 
of  his  delicious  improprieties ;  my  future  lord 
and  master  disapproves  of  him." 

"Why  on  earth  do  you  many  that  man  ?"  he 
cried.  "You  are  well  off  now  —  you  will  be 
rich ;  St.  Simon's  mine  is  a  wonderful  success. 
What  object  can  you  have  in  selling  yourself?" 

She  was  angry  now. 

"Sir  Talbot  Castlemaine,"  said  she,  "I  told 
you  when  we  first  met  that  there  were  subjects 
the  mention  of  which,  on  your  part,  I  should 
consider  intolerable  insolence!  How  can  you 
venture  to  speak  like  that  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  half  mad,  I  think,"  he  groaned. 

"Then  you'd  better  go  away  and  recover  your 
senses.  Why  do  I  many  Mr.  Alleyne  ?  Why 
should  I  not,  and  like  him  too  ?" 

He  winced  under  her  words.  She  put  by  her 
vexation,  and  continued  playfully,  "I  have  no 
fancy  for  being  an  old  maid.  I  am  doing  very 
well  with  my  life;  you  know  that,  though  you 
will  talk  nonsense.  I  am  going  to  be  dull  and 
respectable,  and  married  too :  your  good  exam 
ple  is  contagious." 

"I  wish  I  had  blown  my  brains  out  the  day 
of  my  wedding!"  he  cried;  "and  you  will  wish 
the  same  for  yourself  before  six  months  are 
gone." 

"  One  is  always  wishing  that  about  something," 
returned  she,  coolly. 

"Can  you  feel?" he  exclaimed,  passionately. 
"Have  you  any  heart?" 

She  held  up  her  hand  warningly. 

"  That  is  not  a  question  for  Lady  Castlemaine's 
husband  to  ask,"  said  she.  "Now,  Talbot,  don't 


118 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


be  foolish !  Don't  cloud  these  last  days  by  any 
nonsense  which  will  make  me  regret  our  friend 
ship." 

"You  are  very  wise  and  prudent, "he  said, 
bitterly. 

"Very!  Better  not  sneer  at  me,  though,  for 
the  possession  of  those  virtues!" 

The  thought  of  soon  seeing  her  another  man's 
wife  roused  a  fierce  tempest  in  his  soul,  deepen 
ed  the  glowing  infatuation  of  the  past  weeks  into 
frenzy.  He  stood  before  her,  his  eyes  wild  and 
dilate'd,  a  spot  of  vivid  color  on  either  cheek. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  have  three  minds  to 
do?"  he  gasped.  "I'd  like  to  strangle  you  in 
my  arms,  and  blow  my  own  brains  out  just  as  I 
felt  your  last  dying  breath  on  my  lips." 

She  could  have  cried  to  him  to  do  it — thrown 
herself  on  his  breast,  and  gone  utterly  mad. 
The  very  whirl  in  her  brain  brought  her  senses 
back. 

"I  hate  melodrama,  even  on  the  stage,"  said 
she.  "Had  you  not  better  say  good-morning, 
SirTalbot?" 

"What  an  accursed  fool  I  am !  what  a  triple 
idiot!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  don't  wonder  you 
laugh  at  me." 

"  I  don't  laugh,"  she  said,  softly.  "  But  stop 
now,  Talbot.  We  live  in  the  real  world;  we 
must  be  sensible." 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  room  a  few  times, 
then  flung  himself  in  a  chair  near  her,  saying, 

"But  why  shouldn't  I  go  to  Creuxville,  too?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  you  there;  I  shall  be 
occupied." 

"Not  at  first!  I  may  go  and  stay  till  he 
comes." 

"I  do  like  my  friends  near,"  Fanny  said,  pen 
sively.  ' '  If  only  you  would  be  nice.  St.  Simon 
can't  go  yet;  he  is  trying  to  bury  some  rich 
Eussians  in  his  mine.  It  would  be  very  pleasant 
to  have  you  and  Lady  Castlemaine.  I  think  I 
will  ask  her,  as  a  favor  to  me." 

"Ah,  now  you  are  good  and  kind.  God  bless 
you !  At  least  I  don't  have  to  be  cast  into  utter 
darkness  without  warning." 

"No;  you  shall  have  a  little  preparatory  twi 
light.  It  is  very  silly  of  us  both ;  better  to  say 
good-bye  here." 

"  I  will  not  do  it— I  will  not !" 

"  Don't  be  so  emphatic,"  returned  she,  rising. 

"Are  you  sending  me  away  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  going  out." 

"  Where  ?    Let  me  go  with  you  ?" 

"  If  you  like  ;  but  I'd  rather  go  alone." 

"Oh,  if  I  should  be  in  the  way!"  he  retorted, 
sneeringly. 

"You  don't  deserve  my  good -nature,"  said 
she.  "  I  am  going  to  beg  Lady  Castlemaine  to 
coax  you  to  take  her  to  Creuxville,  that  my  aunt 
and  I  need  not  be  alone  there.  Now  are  you 
satisfied,  you  most  ungrateful  of  men  ?" 

He  burst  into  a  torrent  of  ejaculations. 


'Really, "said  she,  scornfully,  "if you  behave 
like  that,  I  don't  want  you.  Please  to  go  away. 
I  am  busy." 

He  got  a  scant  farewell,  and  hurried  off,  not 
wondering  much  at  his  madness.  He  was  so 
accustomed  to  his  own  insanities  that  they  had 
lost  the  power  to  astonish  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

FENCING   WITH   THE   BUTTON   OFF. 

I  THINK  it  was  at  Spa  that  Mrs.  Pattaker  en 
countered  Helen  Devereux.  Still  smarting  from 
a  sense  of  defeat,  she  poured  out  in  magnificent 
language  her  fears  in  regard  to  Lady  Castle- 
maine's  happiness.  Of  course  she  made  Miss 
Langois  do  the  scandal  bits ;  that  is,  repeat  the 
Baden  gossip ;  then  Mrs.  Pattaker  added  her 
forebodings. 

Marian's  letters  had  grown  irregular  and  un- 
frequent ;  somewhat  unsatisfactory,  also,  when 
they  did  come.  Miss  Devereux  was  not  a  wom 
an  to  debate  or  argue  questions  with  herself. 
She  decided  upon  a  thing  and  did  it,  else  she  put 
it  aside  completely.  She  was  greatly  troubled, 
slight  attention  as  she  seemed  to  pay  to  Miss 
Langois'  chatter  or  Mrs.  Pattaker's  stately  re 
grets.  She  would  go  to  Creuxville ;  Marian's 
last  letter  had  informed  her  of  the  proposed  jour 
ney  ;  she  would  go  also. 

Those  amiable  old  birds,  her  step-mother  and 
Miss  Cordy,  were  so  weary  from  much  wander 
ing  up  and  down  the  earth — though  they  had  no 
other  resemblance  to  poor  Job's  persecutor — that 
Miss  Devereux  had  not  the  heart  to  disturb 
them  at  present.  They  should  stay  where  they 
were,  and  meet  her  later  in  Paris.  She  encount 
ered  Roland  Spencer  while  meditating  her  jour 
ney.  He  had  arrived  at  Spa  a  few  days  previous. 

"Do  you  like  staying  here?"  she  asked. 

"Not  particularly,"  he  answered,  with  a  rath 
er  wearied  air.  Life  was  not  so  bright  and  full 
of  interest  as  it  used  to  be. 

"Would  you  mind  going  away?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.     Where  shall  I  go  ?" 

"I  wish  you  would  take  charge  of  me  and 
my  maid — a  much  more  important  person — to 
Creuxville.  I  want  to  see  Lady  Castlemaine, 
but  it  seems  a  shame  to  drag  my  elders  any  far 
ther  just  now,  and  my  poor  Jules  is  ailing,  and 
needs  the  waters  as  much  as  if  he  were  a  fine 
lady. " 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  be  of  use,  you  know 
that,"  said  Roland  ;  and  so  they  set  off  the  next 
morning,  at  an  unearthly  hour. 

Miss  Devereux  sent  no  warning  of  her  arrival 
to  Marian,  though  of  course  she  took  the  precau 
tion  to  assure  herself  by  telegraph  that  she  could 
find  rooms  in  the  hotel  with  her  friends. 

It  was  twilight.    Lady  Castlemaine  sat  by  a 


ST.  SIMOISTS  NIECE. 


119 


window  of  her  chamber,  looking  down  into  the 
busy  street,  and  out  upon  the  place  beyond. 
Odious  little  Creuxville  was  crowded  this  season. 
Patriotic  French  people  made  it  a  point  to  avoid 
German  spas,  and  the  President's  visit  brought 
hosts  of  Republicans  and  Liberals. 

It  was  ten  days  since  the  Castlemaines  arrived 
thither,  with  Fanny  St.  Simon  and  her  aunt. 
These  last  were  in  lodgings,  and  somehow,  though 
Fanny  had  begged  Lady  Castlemaine  to  come, 
as  a  favor  to  her,  the  two  were  not  very  much  to 
gether.  For  a  while  each  morning  Fanny  came 
and  sat  with  her.  They  walked  on  the  beach, 
occasionally  drove  out ;  then  Marian  went  back 
to  her  lonely  rooms.  She  was  so  weak  and  nerv 
ous  that  any  attempt  at  gayety  was  impossible. 
The  doctors  had  said  sea-air  might  be  of  benefit 
to  her,  so  she  yielded  to  Fanny's  request,  aware 
that  it  would  please  Talbot. 

She  was  not  jealous,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  word.  She  knew  Miss  St.  Simon  would  soon 
be  married  and  gone  ;  but  that  would  not  bring 
Talbot  any  nearer  her.  Perhaps  she  had  not 
lost  his  love  —  she  would  have  lain  down  and 
died,  she  told  herself,  if  once  convinced  of  this — 
but  she  had  lost  the  power  to  amuse  and  interest 
him.  So  far  as  she  could  see,  her  fate  was  not 
different  from  that  of  most  wives  in  this  gay 
world  to  which  her  wedded  life  had  introduced 
her.  Other  women  saw  their  husbands  at  din 
ner,  went  with  them  into  ball-rooms ;  that  began 
and  ended  their  companionship.  It  was  her  case, 
too ;  but  other  women  did  not  appear  to  suffer ; 
they  found  interests  and  amusements  for  them 
selves.  She  had  nothing,  no  resource  wherewith 
to  fill  up  her  solitary  hours. 

It  disturbed  her  no  more  to  know  that  Talbot 
spent  a  great  portion  of  his  mornings  with  Fan 
ny  St.  Simon,  that  he  went  to  parties  and  con 
certs  to  meet  her,  than  it  did  to  have  him  pass 
his  evenings  at  card-tables  or  among  racing  men. 
The  fact  remained  that  her  society  did  not  suf 
fice  for  him — had  lost  its  charm ;  that  he  was 
moody,  weary,  or  impatient  when  they  were 
alone ;  or,  worse  yet,  showed  the  effort  it  cost 
him  to  be  attentive  and  kind. 

The  bloom  had  worn  rapidly  off  Marian's  ro 
mance  ;  yet  she  could  have  offered  no  other  com 
plaint,  had  she  wished  to  complain,  than  that 
Talbot  behaved  like  the  generality  of  husbands 
whom  she  saw.  But  it  was  so  different  from 
her  dream  —  from  his  dream,  too.  Ah,  if  she 
could  have  died  during  that  illness  before  her 
marriage  —  died  in  his  arms,  with  her  glorious 
vision  undimmed  !  She  had  come  to  wisli  that ; 
not  consciously  to  wish  it,  but  to  think  what  a 
blessed  death  it  would  have  been,  and  what  a 
beautiful  memory  her  earthly  life  must  ever  have 
appeared,  even  amidst  the  splendors  of  eternity. 

She  was  thin  and  pale ;  the  change  had  come 
so  gradually  that  Castlemaine  scarcely  noticed 
it.  StrangQrs  no  longer  said,  "  How  pretty  Lady 


Castlemaine  is !"  They  shook  their  heads  when 
she  passed,  and  whispered,  "How  very  delicate 
she  looks! — chest,  I  should  think — so  many  En 
glish  girls  go  in  that  way." 

Marian  herself  half  believed  it  the  beginning 
of  the  end.  She  suffered  no  pain,  she  did  not 
cough ;  but  sleep  had  deserted  her,  appetite  was 
a  stranger,  and  her  nerves  were  in  so  disturbed 
a  state  that  a  door  suddenly  opened  made  her 
tremble,  and  a  raised  voice  went  through  her  like 
a  knife. 

The  beginning  of  the  end!  Would  Talbot 
grieve  ?  He  might  be  shocked  when  the  fact  be 
came  patent  to  him ;  but  once  gone,  he  could  not 
greatly  miss  her,  since  she  had  come  to  occupy 
so  slight  a  part  in  his  life.  He  would  be  sorry 
— oh  yes,  he  would  be  sorry !  During  the  last 
weeks,  when  he  learned  the  truth,  he  would  grow 
gentle  and  tender — would  stay  beside  her,  hold 
her  hand,  attend  to  her  few  wants ;  she  should 
have  him  to  herself  during  those  closing  weeks. 
They  looked  pleasant  to  her;  she  almost  wished 
that  they  were  near — the  quiet  sweetness  they 
promised  appeared  so  tempting  compared  to  her 
present  loneliness. 

She  was  thinking  these  things  as  she  sat  at  her 
window  in  the  twilight.  The  tread  of  feet,  the 
sound  of  laughter,  the  talk  in  varied  tongues, 
surged  up  from  the  street  below ;  the  tones  of 
music  sounded  at  a  little  distance  ;  the  beat  and 
hoarse  call  of  the  waves  lent  a  deep  under-tone  to 
the  whole.  She  could  look  out  across  the  broad 
sweep  of  gray  sea,  out  to  the  long  line  of  pearly 
white  which  still  lingered  across  the  horizon. 
The  waters  looked  sullen  and  cold ;  two  or  three 
birds  winged  their  way  toward  the  line  of  light ; 
the  waves  near  the  shore  had  more  motion, 
tumbling  in,  foam-crested  and  noisy.  A  few 
stars  shot  up  in  the  sky  ;  the  moon  was  not  visi 
ble  yet.  It  all  showed  so  chill,  so  hopeless !  To 
gaze  down  into  the  busy  square,  hear  the  voices 
and  music,  was  worse  still,  gave  her  a  deeper 
sense  of  solitude. 

Thinking  of  death — thinking  that  this  world 
had  come  to  an  end !  She  was  only  nineteen — 
not  a  year  married  ;  and  though  to  wives  grown 
middle-aged  and  stout  and  comfortable  life  may 
seem  quite  endurable  without  the  romance  girlish 
fancy  casts  over  wedlock,  Marian's  burden  was  a 
hard  one. 

Couched  in  a  low  chair,  leaning  her  two  arms 
on  the  window-sill,  her  face  seeming  still  more 
changed  and  pale  in  the  uncertain  light — so  it 
was  that  Helen  Devereux  found  her,  coming  ab 
ruptly  into  the  room  to  give  a  pleasant  surprise. 

And  Marian  did  not  even  appear  surprised ; 
she  trembled  a  little  from  nervous  agitation  ;  said 
how  glad  she  was :  but  Miss  Devereux  was  the 
one  most  deeply  moved.  She  took  Marian  in 
her  arms,  and  positively  wept,  though  she  tried  to 
laugh  at  her  own  absurdity. 

"Arc  you  ill,  Marian?"  she  asked. 


120 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"  No ;  I  have  never  been  strong  since  we  were 
at  Nice,"  Marian  answered ;  "  but  I  am  not  ill." 

"  Where  is  Talbot?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  he  went  out  after  dinner 
— I  dare  say  to  the  cercle,  or  with  some  friends." 

"And  you — what  do  you  do  here?'1 

"  Nothing,  I  think :  I  am  very  lazy  nowadays. 
How  good  of  you  to  come,  Helen !  how  well  you 
look!" 

Miss  Devereux  told  her  of  Spencer's  proximi 
ty,  so  Marian  said  he  should  be  sent  for.  She 
would  give  them  some  tea.  They  passed  the 
evening  with  her,  talking  cheerfully,  but  both 
were  so  shocked  by  her  appearance  that  it  was 
difficult  to  hide  their  trouble. 

"What  a  world!"  said  Miss  Devereux  to  her 
self  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room.  "If  any 
thing  had  hindered  her  marriage,  she  would  have 
gone  into  a  decline  and  died.  As  it  is,  she  has 
nothing  but  misery ;  that  fiend  of  a  man  is  break 
ing  her  heart." 

The  week  which  followed  showed  Miss  Dev 
ereux  plainly  where  the  trouble  lay.  There  was 
no  one  to  whom  she  could  hint  it  except  Roland 
Spencer,  and  Ke  rejected  angrily  the  idea  that 
Fanny  St.  Simon's  conduct  could  be  in  any  way 
blamable. 

"There's  another,"  thought  Helen.  "That 
creature  needs  only  to  look  at  a  man  to  leave  him 
idiotic.  I  wonder  if  she  knows  what  site  is  do 
ing  !  I  wonder  if  she  would  care  in  the  least  if 
she  knew  that  she  is  helping  to  make  Marian 
wretched." 

Miss  Devereux,  indignant  as  she  was,  had  no 
idea  that  she  should  positively  attack  Fanny  St. 
Simon ;  yet  at  the  end  of  the  week  she  did.  She 
had  come  to  see  the  Tortoise,  and  the  Tortoise 
had  gone  out  to  drive  with  Lady  Dudgeon.  She 
got  into  the  house  before  she  knew  this ;  so  there 
was  no  escape  either  for  her  or  Fanny  from  a  short 
tete-a-tete. 

That  naughty  enchantress  was  looking  espe 
cially  charming  this  morning — perfectly  dressed — 
her  eyes  more  wicked  than  ever,  and  a  triumphant 
smile  on  her  lips.  She  was  almost  affectionate 
to  her  visitor,  because  she  knew  that  would  an 
noy  her  beyond  any  thing.  She  talked  of  the 
brief  season  when  Miss  Devereux  had  lived  in 
her  house — of  how  much  they  all  missed  her. 

"But  you  didn't  miss  us,"  she  said.  "You 
never  liked  either  St.  Simon  or  me.  I  wonder 
why !  I  am  sure  we  are  rather  agreeable  people 
than  otherwise." 

"Very  charming  people,"  Helen  said,  a  little 
taken  aback ;  a  little  vexed,  too,  but  mastering 
her  confusion  bravely. 

"At  least  I  am  glad  to  have  your  favorable 
verdict  on  that  score,"  replied  Fanny,  laughing. 
"And  yet  you  did  not  like  us,  I  suppose,"  she 
added  more  slowly,  as  if  thinking  the  matter  out. 
"  I  suppose  you  do  not  exactly  believe  in  either 
of  us.  Was  that  it  ?" 


Miss  Devereux  had  no  intention  of  being  put 
at  a  disadvantage.  She  took  firm  hold  of  her 
wits,  and  returned  composedly, 

"I  certainly  never  did  believe  in  your  uncle 
— nor  did  you." 

"Poor  St.  Simon!"  smiled  Fanny.  "How 
sore  he  would  be  if  he  heard  you !  St.  Simon 
has  a  mania  for  people's  trusting  him.  And  now 
St.  Simon's  niece — you  don't  put  faith  in  her  ei 
ther  !" 

"Ah,"  said  Miss  Devereux,  quietly,  "as  for 
Miss  St.  Simon,  she  made  no  effort  to  deceive  ; 
she  did  not  like  me,  and  took  no  trouble  to  hide 
the  fact." 

"  Oh,  you  can  not  mean  to  accuse  me  of  hav 
ing  been  rude!"  cried  Fanny,  in  a  tone  of  dis 
tress.  "I  could  bear  any  thing  better  than 
that!" 

"  Never — of  course." 

Fanny's  look  of  relief  was  an  additional  ag 
gravation. 

"And  I  liked  you,"  she  said  ;  "it  was  only 
that  you  would  not  respond.  My  efforts  to  pro 
duce  a  favorable  impression  were  entirely  thrown 
away.  You  showed  that  plainly." 

Miss  Devereux  did  a  little  facial  eloquence  in 
her  turn ;  she  expressed  a  polite  indifference  in 
regard  to  the  truth  of  both  assertions.  She  had 
no  wish  to  continue  the  conversation,  however, 
and  made  some  inquiry  after  the  Tortoise,  allow 
ing  it  plainly  to  appear  that  her  visit  had  been 
intended  for  that  lady. 

"And  I  was  hoping  you  came  to  see  me! 
Well,  I'm  glad  my  aunt  is  out ;  it  punishes  you, 
and  gives  me  the  pleasure  of  your  society.  One 
can  never  talk  in  the  crowds  where  we  usually 
meet,"  Fanny  said,  by  no  means  ready  to  relin 
quish  her  efforts  at  annoying  the  guest. 

"So  few  people  have  any  thing  really  to  say 
to  one  another  when  they  do  meet,"  observed 
Miss  Devereux,  fully  appreciating  Fanny's  drift. 

"Women,  you  mean.  And  I  remember  you 
don't  like  women,"  quoth  Miss  St.  Simon. 

Helen  would  not  even  refute  the  charge. 

"What  lovely  flowers  !"  she  observed,  turning 
to  a  great  basket  of  fragrant  blossoms  on  the  ta 
ble  near. 

"Are  they  not  ?  Sir  Talbot  Castlemaine  sends 
them  to  me,"  replied  Fanny ;  and  Miss  Dever 
eux  fancied  that  she  caught  a  malicious  sparkle 
in  the  dark  eyes.  "What  a  sweet  little  thing 
Lady  Castlemaine  is,  and  how  utterly  unsuited 
to  him !" 

"  I  do  not  perceive  it,  or  any  reason  for  your 
thinking  so,"  returned  Miss  Devereux,  curtly. 

Fanny  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"She  is  a  dear  friend  of  yours,  I  know  ;  I  am 
very  fond  of  her  too."  Helen  looked  so  deaf  to 
the  latter  clause  of  her  remark  that  Miss  St.  Si 
mon  hastened  to  add,  "And  I  believe  she  likes 
me  ;  she  actually  came  here  because  I  was  com 
ing.  Are  you  jealous  ?" 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


121 


"No,"  said  Miss  Devereux. 

"  Still,  though  one  may  like  her,  one  can  not 
shut  one's  eyes  to  facts." 

"Indeed,  one  can  not !"  exclaimed  Miss  Dev 
ereux,  emphatically. 

"  Now,  I  don't  think  Sir  Talbot  a  happy  man," 
continued  Fanny,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  and 
speaking  in  a  lazy  way.  "Have  you  never 
thought  that'?" 

4 '  Never !  He  married  from  love.  I  never  saw 
a  man  more  insanely  in  earnest, "replied  Helen. 

"The  trouble  is,  such  insanities  are  easily 
cured,"  replied  Fanny,  quick  to  turn  Miss  Dev- 
ereux's  unfortunate  adverb  to  account. 

"  I  used  a  very  silly  expression,"  Helen  said. 
"  Sir  Talbot  loved  Marian  so  devoutly  that  he 
was  ready  to  do  for  her  what  he  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  doing  for  another  woman.  He 
was  eager  to  marry  her  while  he  thought  him 
self  still  poor ;  ready  to  work — go  out  to  a  new 
country,  and  begin  a  fresh  life  for  her  sake." 

"  Dear  me !  dear  me !"  sighed  Fanny.  "  How 
admirably  the  term  you  applied  suits  his  case ! — 
insane  certainly.  Why,  it  must  have  been  as 
severe  as  an  attack  of  brain  fever — and  as  short 
lived!" 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  he  has  changed," 
replied  Miss  Devereux,  goaded  into  a  fib,  and  ir 
resistibly  impelled  to  make  it  huger,  "not  the 
slightest  reason." 

"You  have  not  seen  much  of  them,"  Fanny 
said.  "  But,  anyway,  you  are  right  to  speak  as 
you  do.  Clear-sighted  as  you  are,  you  must  have 
discovered  the  truth,  little  as  you  have  been  with 
them." 

"You  are  speaking  in  riddles,  Miss  St.  Simon." 

Again  Fanny  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"There's  no  doubt  he  made  a  great  mistake," 
she  said,  in  the  same  indolent  tone. '  "Just  an 
other  proof  of  the  truth  of  the  old  adage,  about 
marrying  in  haste  to  repent  at  leisure.  A  great 
mistake ;  and  he  looks  as  if  he  had  found  it 
out.  Do  you  think  she  has,  too  ?  Sometimes  I 
fear  it." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  perfect  in  its 
way  than  her  commiserating  contempt  as  she  put 
this  question. 

It  was  impossible  to  rise  and  leave  her,  though 
that  was  Miss  Devereux's  first  impulse.  Every 
drop  of  blood  in  her  veins  tingled  and  boiled  to 
see  the  creature  dare  exhibit  pity  and  scorn  for  a 
state  of  things  which  she  was  daily  helping  to 
render  more  hopeless. 

"How  has  he  made  a  mistake?"  she  asked, 
trying  to  speak  with  something  of  the  other's  in 
difference. 

"You  must  see  —  every  body  does.  She  is 
sweet,  lovely,  a  darling ;  'but  not  able  to  manage 
him.  That  man  was  born  fickle  and  capricious ; 
he  ought  to  have  married  a  tempest — a  whirl 
wind—something  that  would  have  kept  his  mind 
constantly  occupied." 


"Probably  you  are  better  able  to  judge  of  his 
character  than  I,"  said  Miss  Devereux,  coldly. 

"  Yet  they  say  you  were  engaged  to  him 
once,"  returned  Fanny,  sweetly,  but  flinging  off 
the  gloves  now.  She  had  seen  for  days  what 
was  in  Miss  Devereux's  mind ;  she  herself  had 
been  rather  wanting  a  battle.  "I  am  sure  one 
ought  to  know  a  man  after  that !  Perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  have  said  it  —  I  am  so  careless! 
But,  after  all,  there  can  be  no  offense  in  repeat 
ing  what  you  must  know  was  said." 

"People  say  so  many  impertinent  things," ob 
served  Miss  Devereux,  calm  enough  outwardly, 
though  her  hasty  temper  was  in  arms.  "They 
said  at  Baden  that  you  flirted  outrageously  with 
Sir  Talbot,  and  were  making  his  wife  wretched. 
Perhaps  that  is  not  polite  either ;  but,  after  all, 
there  can  be  no  offense  in  repeating  what  you 
must  know  was  said." 

"Not  in  the  least," replied  Fanny,  unmoved  ; 
"but  I  never  knew  it.  How  delicious — I  mean 
— I  mean  to  tell  Marian  !" 

"I  would  not,"  said  Miss  Devereux,  stiffly. 

"  Why  would  you  not  ?"  asked  Fanny,  her  eyes 
handsomer  than  ever  with  a  wide  look  of  surprise. 

Since  the  opportunity  offered,  Miss  Devereux 
had  no  mind  to  spare  Fanny  a  lesson ;  the  girl 
had  been  daring  her  to  give  it,  and  she  would. 

"  Why  would  you  not  ?"  Fanny  repeated,  with 
laughing  impatience. 

"Because  there  may  have  been  truth  enough 
for  your  words  to  give  her  pain, "returned  Miss 
Devereux. 

"Truth  enough  in  what?"  she  asked,  with  a 
soft  laugh,  which  rippled  out  like  running  water. 
"  That  I  flirted  with  him  ?" 

"  Of  that  I  never  had  the  least  doubt, "  answer 
ed  Miss  Devereux. 

"That's  delicious!"  cried  Fanny,  laughing  still. 
"  Then  you  must  mean  you  believe  she  was  trou 
bled." 

"  So  I  do !  I  don't  think  Marian  Castlemaine 
has  been  jealous  of  you,  but  I  do  think  that  any 
attraction  which  takes  her  husband  away  from 
her  gives  her  pain,"  said  Miss  Devereux,  rather 
too  hotly. 

Fanny  rested  her  head  on  the  back  of  her  chair 
in  an  easy,  graceful  attitude,  and  looked  at  her 
visitor  with  a  placid  smile. 

"  Did  you  come  here  this  morning  to  read  me 
a  lecture?"  she  asked,  carelessly,  good-naturedly, 
as  if  they  had  been  the  dearest  friends  in  the 
world,  and  such  a  procedure  common  on  Miss 
Devereux's  part. 

"No,  I  came  to  see  your  aunt,"  she  replied; 
"  but  you  brought  this  talk  up,  and  rather  dared 
me  to  say  what  I  have,  so  I  spoke." 

"  Oh,  out  of  mere  bravado  ?  Then  your  coun 
sel  loses  all  point,"  said  Fanny,  laughing  again. 

"There  was  no  bravado  about  it,"  said  Miss 
Devereux.  "I  am  very  glad  to  have  had  an  op 
portunity  of  saying  what  was  in  my  mind." 


122 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"But  what  purpose  can  it  serve?— show  me," 
said  Fanny,  as  if  studying  the  matter  from  a  to 
tally  disinterested  point  of  view. 

"Because  if  you  have  done  these  things 
thoughtlessly,  I  hope  now  you  will  try,  like  me 
— like  Mr.  Spencer — try  as  any  real  friend  of  Sir 
Talbot's  ought — to  draw  him  back  to  his  home, 
instead  of  encouraging  him  to  leave  it." 

She  spoke  rapidly;  she  was  conscious  that 
Fanny  could  not  be  much  blamed  if  she  actually 
turned  her  out-of-doors;,  but  she  said  her  say, 
nevertheless.  Fanny  listened  with  entire  com 
posure,  watching  the  unusual  flush -which  rose  to 
her  companion's  cheeks — watching  it  curiously, 
and  with  a  certain  amusement. 

"So  you  really  think  I  have  influence  over  Sir 
Talbot?"  she  asked,  gayly.  "How  glad  I  am! 
I  like  to  believe  I  can  influence  people." 

"Then  I  hope  you  will  use  it  for  his  good," 
cried  Miss  Devereux,  speaking  too  hotly  again 
under  the  irritation  caused  by  the  other's  man 
ner. 

"  What  shall  I  say  ?"  asked  Fanny.  "  '  Dear 
Sir  Talbot,  go  home  to  your  little  wife,  and  help 
wind  worsted.  Don't  look  to  the  right  or  the  left 
on  the  road,  that's  a  good  boy.'  Would  this  do  ?" 

"  Something  to  that  effect  would  do  very  well," 
said  Miss  Devereux.  "Of  course,  what  I  have 
said  is  perfectly  unwarrantable  and  unjustifia 
ble—" 

"Perfectly,"  cooed  Fanny,  with  delightful  ami 
ability,  as  she  might  have  addressed  her  most 
intimate  friend. 

"Still,  you  brought  it  on  yourself,"  added  Miss 
Devereux. 

"But  suppose  I  refuse  to  do  this,  or  any  thing 
like  it  ?"  cried  Fanny,  with  more  animation, 
though  betraying  no  sign  of  anger.  "  Suppose  I 
say  I  am  doing  nothing  wrong — that  I  choose  to 
amuse  myself  with  Sir  Talbot — what  do  you  think 
of  doing  in  that  case  ?" 

"I  can't  say  I  have  thought." 

"Odd," said  Fanny, laughing  again.  "  I  have 
seen  for  days  you  wanted  to  lecture  me;  but 
what  is  tHe  use  of  distressing  yourself  if  you  can 
hold  out  neither  bribe  nor  threat  ?" 

"If  you  are  a  good,  true-hearted  woman, 
neither  will  be  needed!"  exclaimed  Miss  Dever 
eux,  tormented  past  her  last  frail  hold  of  patience 
by  this  insolent  calmness. 

"I  never  saw  the  sort  of  seraphic  creature 
you  mention,"  said  Fanny.  "  Lady  Castlemaine 
comes  nearer  the  description  than  any  body ;  if 
her  fate  is  as  sad  as  you  describe,  I  congratulate 
you  and  myself  on  being  neither  good  nor  true- 
hearted." 

"I  decline  a  share  in  such  congratulations," 
said  Miss  Devereux.  "I  shall  say  au  revoir 
now.  I  had  no  idea  our  talk  would  stray  in  the 
direction  it  has." 

"I  like  it,"  said  Fanny ;  "  it  is  a  pleasant  va 
riety  in  the  usual  stale  topics  women  discuss. 


But" — anxious  to  vex  and  worry  her  opponent 
farther — "you  have  made  a  muddle  of  it,  after 
all !  You  began  in  a  very  severe  style  indeed, 
and  you  don't  carry  it  out. " 

"Upon  my  word!"  cried  Miss  Devereux. 
"Long  ago,  Fanny  St.  Simon,  I  told  you  that  I 
had  never  met  a  human  being  with  your  genius 
for  being  provoking,  and  I  can  only  repeat  it." 

"Then,  why  do  you  meddle  with  me?"  she 
asked,  a  sudden  flash  of  anger  darkening  her 
eyes.  "Having  meddled  with  what  you  justly 
observe  is  none  of  your  business,  why  do  you 
leave  the  matter  unfinished  ?" 

Then  she  laughed  at  her  own  energy,  and  her 
visitor's  troubled,  indignant  face. 

"I  can  not  see  that  it  is  a  subject  for  laugh 
ter,"  exclaimed  Miss  Devereux,  stung  afresh  by 
this  merriment.  "You  are  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried." 

"And  what  then?" 

"  Suppose  these  Baden  gossipings  should  come 
to  the  ears  of — " 

"  Chut !"  interrupted  Fanny,  holding  up  her 
hand.  Her  quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound  of 
a  step  in  the  anteroom.  "Yes,  I  thought  so! 
Dear  Miss  Devereux,  here  comes  the  unfortunate 
individual  now!  You  might  tell  him  yourself — 
the  information  would  come  with  such  a  good 
grace  from  you,  of  all  persons  in  the  world !" 

As  she  spoke  the  door  opened,  and  Gregory 
Alleyne  appeared.  He  had  arrived  on  the  previ 
ous  day,  unknown  to  Miss  Devereux. 

"Come  and  shake  hands  with  an  old  friend, 
Gregory, "  cried  Fanny,  gayly.  "She  came  on 
purpose  to  welcome  you.  I  told  you  I  was  as 
naughty  as  possible  at  Baden ;  just  ask  Helen 
Devereux  if  it  is  not  true." 

Miss  Devereux  rose ;  Mr.  Alleyne  advanced. 
Both  changed  color,  though  they  managed  a  few 
commonplaces  with  sufficient  composure. 

Fanny's  eyes  danced  with  malicious  glee ;  and 
wherever  a  tiny  dagger,  in  the  guise  of  an  appar 
ently  innocent  word,  could  pierce  the  armor  of 
one  or  the  other,  Fanny  thrust  the  weapon  res 
olutely  and  dexterously  home,  and  they  only 
blamed  their  own  weak,  cowardly  hearts,  not  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ON  THE   BEACH. 

ST.  SIMON  appeared  at  Creuxville  only  three 
days  after  Alleyne's  arrival. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning ;  Alleyne  had  come 
rather  early  to  the  house,  and,  finding  it  difficult 
to  sit  still  and  talk  and  be  talked  to,  Fanny  pro 
posed  their  going  down  to  the  beach. 

"Would  you  mind  taking  poor  T.  ?"  she  ask 
ed,  as  soon  as  he  had  consented  to  her  first  prop 
osition.  "It  does  her  so  much  good  to  go  out, 
and  she  hates  walking  unless  she  has  company." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


123 


"Ask  her,  of  course;  I  will  give  her  my  arm 
with  pleasure,"  Alleyne  answered. 

"You  are  always  so  kind,"  said  Fanny,  and 
she  smiled,  then  sighed,  and  her  eyes  rested 
somewhat  wistfully  on  his  face. 

"Are  you  not  well  this  morning?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  there  is  never  any  thing  the  mat 
ter  with  me — as  far  as  health  goes,  at  least.  I 
am  fanciful,  and  given  to  tormenting  myself  some 
times,  perhaps." 

"Are  you  doing  that  now  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  would  think  me  very  silly  if 
I  said  yes  ?" 

"I  should  try  and  persuade  you  to  tell  me  the 
cause,"  he  replied,  taking  her  hand  kindly.  "Is 
there  any  thing  that  really  troubles  you,  Fanny  ?" 

"I  dare  say  there  is  no  reality  about  it,  but 
something  troubles  me  all  the  same,"  she  said, 
giving  him  a  shy  glance. 

"  Can  I  help  set  it  right  ?" 

"Perhaps;  it  concerns  you,  anyway." 

"  Then  let  me  hear  it,  by  all  means." 

"I'm  a  goose!  I  know  it  is  just  one  of  my 
teasing  fancies.  Tell  me  that  it  is,  will  you 
not  ?" 

"  But  I  must  hear  the  fancy  first !" 

"Ah,  well!  only — now  you  will  not  laugh? 
It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  different  since  you 
came  back;  triste — ennuye.  Oh,  I  forgot!  you 
don't  like  French  words.  It  is  just  my  absurdi 
ty,  is  it  not  ?  You  are  glad  to  come  back !" 

"I  am  very  glad  to  come  back,"  he  replied. 
' '  Perhaps  I  am  a  little  silent  and  grave.  Re 
member,  I  have  gone  through  a  good  many  pain 
ful  scenes  during  my  absence." 

He  stopped ;  his  explanation  was  not  entire 
ly  truthful,  and  he  suddenly  became  conscious 
of  it. 

"How  selfish  of  me  not  to  have  thought  of 
that!  Forgive  me,  do  forgive  me!"  cried  Fan 
ny,  and  looked  such  a  beautiful  model  of  contri 
tion  that  he  could  not  help  admiring  her,  gloomy 
and  dissatisfied  as  he  felt. 

Dissatisfied  with  himself,  though,  not  her. 
It  was  finding  Helen  Devereux  at  Creuxville 
which  had  put  him  in  this  frame  of  mind,  and 
he  recognized  this,  angry  and  ashamed,  too,  that 
he  should  be  forced  to  admit  it.  Fanny  under 
stood  the  whole  matter  as  clearly  as  he  did,  feel 
ing  neither  pity  nor  indignation  at  what  she  per 
ceived.  She  wanted  him  to  see  that  she  noticed 
his  abstraction  and  gravity,  because  hereafter  the 
time  might  come  when  she  would  wish  to  use 
this  season  as  a  weapon  against  him ;  when 
she  might  desire  to  overwhelm  him  by  her  ac 
quaintance  with  his  past.  Then  she  should  want 
to  remind  him  that  she  had  observed  his  man 
ner,  had  spoken  of  it,  and  that  he  had  put  her 
oflf  with  paltry  excuses — he  who  prided  himself 
on  his  candor  and  honesty.  She  did  not  dis 
guise  from  her  mind  the  fact  that  before  their 
married  life  had  continued  long  she  should  need 


to  make  use  of  such  charges  against  him  as  a 
reason  for  her  own  conduct.  Ever  since  his 
return  she  had  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible, 
once  his  wife,  to  keep  up  the  farce  of  tenderness 
and  attention.  This  state  of  feeling  was  due  to 
the  effect  those  weeks  of  Castlemaine's  society 
had  upon  her ;  she  knew  that,  too,  but  she  did 
not  regret  them.  So  when  the  wedded  yoke 
should  gall  too  heavily,  and  her  hot  spirit  break 
into  active  rebellion ;  when  he  learned  that  he 
had  no  more  hold  on  her  heart  than  the  merest 
stranger,  she  would  need  all  these  proofs  of  what 
she  called  his  treachery,  that  she  might  put  her 
self  in  the  right,  might  be  able  to  declare  that 
the  change  hi  her  rose  from  her  knowledge  of  his 
deceit. 

Yet  she  wronged  him.  He  was  conscious  of 
no  revival  of  tenderness  toward  Helen  Devereux. 
He  still  believed  that  it  was  rather  anger  than 
any  other  emotion  which  the  sight  of  her  roused. 
But  the  memory  of  the  old  days  would  come 
back.  He  could  not  help  regretting  those  wasted 
years  spent  in  adoring  an  ideal ;  they  still  look 
ed  so  beautiful  that  the  new  ties  he  had  assumed 
showed  poor  and  common,  and  it  was  for  this  he 
reproached  himself  with  such  bitter  humiliation. 

So  now,  when  Fanny  began  to  exclaim  against 
her  own  wickedness  in  not  remembering  how  he 
had  suffered  and  undergone  every  species  of  an 
noyance  during  his  absence,  once  more  the  desire 
to  give  her  a  frank,  full  explanation  occurred  to 
him  with  renewed  urgency.  But  an  explanation 
was  exactly  what  Miss  St.  Simon  did  not  desire 
or  mean  to  have.  She  got  away  from  the  sub 
ject  immediately  ;  would  hear  nothing,  only  that 
he  forgave  her  selfish  fancies,  and  promised  nev 
er  to  indulge  in  such  folly  again.  Then  she  sum 
moned  the  Tortoise,  and  they  went  down  to  the 
beach,  and  strolled  about  among  the  idle  people 
who  were  then  enjoying  the  sunshine  and  the 
fresh  sea-air. 

Presently  they  came  upon  Roland  Spencer, 
and  though  he  made  his  greetings  cordially 
enough,  and  seemed  quite  at  his  ease,  he  had  no 
wish  to  tarry.  But  Fanny  knew  that  presently 
the  Tortoise  would  cry  out  she  was  fatigued  and 
beg  to  sit  down,  and  then  Alleyne  would  be  at 
liberty  to  bestow  his  attention  upon  herself,  and 
it  was  to  avoid  such  attention  that  she  had  pro 
posed  coming  out.  So  now,  when  Spencer  show 
ed  signs  of  meaning  to  escape,  she  said,  laugh 
ingly* 

"Well,  I  did  think  you  would  have  politeness 
enough  to  offer  me  your  arm  instead  of  running 
away.  Mr.  Alleyne  has  to  take  care  of  aunty, 
and  I  am  so  tired  walking  in  this  slippery  sand." 

Roland  could  not  have  resisted  had  resistance 
been  possible.  He  gave  Fanny  his  aid,  and  they 
walked  on,  soon  distancing  the  poor  Tortoise  and 
her  cavalier.  Indeed  the  Tortoise,  as  Fanny  had 
foreseen,  soon  complained  of  fatigue,  and  begged 
to  rest ;  but  by  this  time  her  niece  and  Spencer 


124 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


were  so  far  in  advance  that  they  could  not  be 
supposed  to  know  the  others  had  paused. 

"What  a  comfort  to  have  met  you! "Fanny 
said ;  "  I  have  scarcely  seen  you  a  minute  alone 
since  you  came.  And  now  you  don't  seem  to 
care;  you  look  cross.  Aren't  you  glad  any  more 
to  see  me,  Roland  ?" 

But  he  could  not  be  played  with  and  teased  ; 
his  heart  was  too  sore  still,  though  he  never 
dreamed  that  she  tortured  him  wittingly,  just  to 
get  out  of  herself  for  a  little. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  don't  care  to  see  me 
any  more,  Eoland  ?"  she  added,  when  he  did  not 
speak. 

"You  must  not  ask  such  questions," he  said, 
almost  sternly.  "Fanny,  I  am  doing  my  best; 
don't  make  me  feel  how  poor  and  weak  it  is." 

"Why,  you  are  braver  and  stronger  than  any 
body  in  the  world,  Roland — and  truer  too ! "  she 
cried. 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  he,  impatiently.  ' '  I 
try,  God  knows  I  have  tried — and  I  will,  and  I 
shall  conquer!" 

She  did  not  need  to  ask  what  he  meant.  She 
was  sorry  for  his  pain,  too — sorry  that  she  had 
asked  her  question.  Why  should  she  torture 
him  as  she  did  every  body  else — him  of  whom 
she  was  so  fond  in  a  sisterly,  patronizing  way  ? 

"You  will  always  conquer,  Koland,  whatever 
you  undertake,"  she  said,  softly. 

"You  mean  when  the  battle  is  against  myself, 
I  suppose." 

"And  those  are  the  hardest  battles  to  fight. 
See  how  the  rest  of  us  fail  always." 

"Oh,  it  seems  to  me.  other  people  don't  have 
to  engage  in  such  contests :  what  they  want 
comes  to  them,  and  there's  an  end." 

"  Roland !"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  silly  speech ;  it  is  always  silly 
to  complain." 

"I  did  not  mean  that.  But  how  can  you 
look  about  and  say  that  other  people  get  what 
they  want  ?  How  can  you  say  it  to  me,  of  all 
persons  ?" 

"  I  beg  pardon  ;  but — it  will  sound  brutal,  I 
fear." 

"Say  it  all  the  same.  At  least,  if  it  is  some 
thing  harsh  it  will  sound  truthful.  What  did 
you  mean  ?" 

"  Only  that  in  any  case  one  need  not  take 
•what  one  does  not  want:  as  I  think  you  are 
doing." 

"As  you  know  I  am ;  I  have  never  concealed 
that  from  you.  But  you  don't  understand  any 
thing  about  it,  Roland.  What  I  have  begun,  I 
must  finish,  and  there's  an  end." 

"  No ;  the  worst  of  it  is,  there  will  never  be  an 
end." 

"  Oh,  don't  remind  me  of  that,  don't !  I  can 
not  draw  back  now,  Roland  ;  there  are  things  I 
can  not  make  clear  even  to  you.  Perhaps  if  I 
had  known  how  hard  it  would  be,  I  might  have 


hesitated  in  the  beginning;  but  it  is  too  late! 
Only  don't  think  of  me  any  more  harshly  than 
you  can  help.  Try  to  believe  there  may  have 
been  some  excuse  for  my  conduct  which  you  do 
not  know." 

"I  shall  never  think  harshly  of  you,  Fanny; 
you  are  sure  of  that. " 

"My  good,  good  Iloland  —  my  brave,  kind 
brother ! " 

She  clasped  her  hands  over  his  arm,  and  look 
ed  up  into  his  face.  The  touch  of  those  deli 
cate  fingers,  the  light  in  those  appealing  eyes, 
made  his  head  swim  and  his  step  actually  falter ; 
but  he  walked  on  in  silence,  not  trusting  himself 
to  glance  at  her  again.  He  had  his  battle  to 
fight,  and  he  would  fight  it  manfully.  She  be 
longed  to  another  now ;  soon  any  weakness 
where  she  was  concerned  would  be  an  absolute 
sin  on  his  part,  and  Roland  vowed  that  his  soul 
should  not  be  sullied  by  such  unworthy  error. 

Presently  Fanny's  voice  called  him  out  of  his 
reverie. ' 

"  What  are  you  thinking,  Roland  ?" 

"A  great  many  things-;  but  they  would  not 
be  worth  repeating. " 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that.  Oh,  I  had  quite  for 
gotten  those  people — we  have  walked  ever  so  far. 
Well,  your  reflections  must  go,  and  we  must  get 
back.  T.  will  be  seized  with  the  idea  that  we 
have  been  washed  away  by  the  waves,  and  Mr. 
Alleyne  is  not  enough  accustomed  to  her  vagaries 
to  know  how  to  manage  her." 

Roland  was  quite  ready  to  return  ;  he  had  no 
wish  to  find  himself  alone  with  Fanny  in  these 
days.  He  wanted  a  cure  for  his  heart-ache,  not 
a  weak  indulgence  in  momentary  pleasure  which 
only  left  the  wound  sorer,  and  rendered  it  more 
difficult  for  him  to  struggle  on  in  the  right  way. 

They  came  in  sight,  at  last,  of  the  Tortoise  and 
Mr.  Alleyne ;  but  the  former  seemed  quite  peace 
ful  and  calm,  and  was  listening  to  her  compan 
ion's  conversation  with  as  much  of  an  expression 
of  interest  as  her  face  could  assume  in  these  days. 

"  Mrs.  St.  Simon  looks  very  comfortable," 
Spencer  said. 

"Yes ;  we  need  not  have  hurried  back  ;  but  I 
suppose  it  was  better.  I  was  in  a  mood  to  com 
plain  and  gird  against  destiny,  and  that  does  no 
good,  does  it  ?" 

"None,  Fanny." 

"Please  do  me  one  more  favor  this  morning," 
she  said. 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"Come  home  with  us.  T.  will  want  to  go 
in,  and  I  am  sure  I  shall  do  or  say  something 
dreadful  if  we  don't  have  company." 

She  could  hardly  have  asked  any  slight  thing 
so  hard  for  Roland  ;  to  play  third  in  a  conversa 
tion  between  Fanny  and  her  betrothed  was  what 
he  always  got  away  from.  But  he  bowed  his 
head  in  assent,  and  only  smiled  sadly  when  she 
thanked  him  in  her  pretty,  enthusiastic  fashion. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


125 


"Did  you  begin  to  think  we  were  lost,  T.  ?" 
asked  Fanny,  laying  her  hand  on  her  aunt's 
shoulder. 

"Lor ! "  squeaked  the  Tortoise.  ' '  You  fright 
ened  me,  Fanny.  I  didn't  see  you  come  up." 

"You  seemed  very  earnest  in  your  talk," 
laughed  Fanny.  "I  shall  tell  St.  Simon  what  a 
flirtation  you  are  having  with  Mr.  Alleyne." 

"She's  only  joking,"  the  Tortoise  explained 
to  the  two  gentlemen  in  a  wheezy  whisper. 
"Mr.  Alleyne  was  telling  me  about — about  the 
coral  reefs,  Fanny — away  off  there,  you  know  ; " 
and  she  pointed  vaguely  out  to  sea  as  if  they 
lay  somewhere  toward  the  English  coast.  "Do 
you  know  about  the  coral  reefs,  Mr.  Spencer  ?" 
she  continued. 

"Not  so  much  as  I  ought,  I  dare  say,"  he  re 
plied. 

"Oh,  they  are  very  wonderful — in  the  Italian 
— I  mean  Indian  Ocean  ;  but  I  don't  recollect 
if  it  is  from  there  the  birds  bring  the  guano — 
Mr.  Alleyne  knows." 

"Your  explanation  must  have  been  singular 
ly  clear,"  Fanny  observed  to  that  gentleman,  but 
he  never  had  the  heart  to  smile  at  the  Tortoise's 
woolly  bewilderment ;  he  could  not  help  feeling 
that  some  great  shock  or  prolonged  trouble  had 
left  her  what  she  was.  Indeed,  Fanny  once, 
when  in  the  mood  for  recitation,  composed  a 
moving. tale  out  of  the  slight  facts  she  was  ac 
quainted  with  in  regard  to  the  loss  of  the  Tor 
toise's  baby,  and  the  brain-fever  which  followed, 
and  Alleyne  concluded  that  since  then  she  had 
never  been  quite  like  other  people. 

"Fanny!"  she  called,  suddenly,  "bend  down 
your  head." 

"Yes,  T." 

"I — want — to — sneeze  !"in  an  awful  whisper, 
and  with  such  hissing  distinctness  that  it  sound 
ed  like  a  strangled  whistle. 

"We  will  go  home,  T.,"  Fanny  answered 
aloud.  "  If  you  ask  him,  I  dare  say  Mr.  Spencer 
will  come  and  have  breakfast  or  lunch,  or  what 
ever  you  please  to  call  it,  with  us." 

"Will  he?"  returned  the  Tortoise.  "Yes, 
there's  sure  to  be  enough  —  I  mean  eatables. 
Do  come,  Mr.  Spencer.  And  I  need  my  lunch 
— I  couldn't  remember  what  it  was  I  hadn't 
had." 

Fanny  kept  her  hand  on  the  Tortoise's  arm, 
so  the  two  gentlemen  were,  obliged  to  walk  by 
themselves ;  indeed,  they  understood  the  reason 
for  this,  and  did  not  turn  their  heads. 

"Now,  sneeze  and  be  done,  T.,"  Fanny  said. 

Out  came  the  snuff-box,  and  the  Tortoise  in 
haled  a  tremendous  pinch  with  sensuous  enjoy 
ment. 

"It  makes  me  feel  stronger,"  she  sighed; 
"but  don't  tell,  Fanny." 

They  were  seated  at  the  luncheon-table,  when 
St.  Simon  entered  so  unexpectedly  that  the  Tor 
toise  at  sight  of  him  dropped  her  knife  and  fork, 


and  uttered  one  of  her  dolorous  squeaks.  She 
was  always  frightened  when  he  first  appeared 
after  an  absence,  and  shrunk  into  a  heap,  mind 
ful,  probably,  of  past  pinches. 

"My  dear  Anastasia!"  said  St.  Simon,  pre 
tending  to  kiss  her  forehead,  though  Fanny  no 
ticed  that  he  was  careful  not  to  touch  it.  "Fan 
ny,  my  love,  embrace  your  affectionate  relative. 
Ah,  Alleyne !  welcome  back  heartily ;  the  same 
to  you,  Roland,  my  boy." 

Long  before  the  Tortoise  had  recovered  a  sem 
blance  of  self-possession  St.  Simon  was  establish 
ed  at  table,  eating  a  comfortable  breakfast,  and 
talking  in  his  usual  gay  fashion. 

"  I  am  en  route  for  England,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
I  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  looking  in  on 
you  for  a  day.  What  do  you  say  to  that  for  a 
proof  of  devotion,  T.  ?" 

The  Tortoise  rolled  her  eyes  wildly,  but  man 
aged  to  reply, 

"  Yes,  St.  Simon ;"  and  her  husband  laughed. 

"Telegrams  and  unexpected  arrivals  are  al 
ways  too  much  for  my  wife's  nerves,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  actually  going  to-morrow  ?"  Fanny 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  must.  What  is  the  old  adage? — 
Business  before,  et  eastern.  But  I  shall  not  be 
gone  long." 

He  talked  on  gayly,  but  Fanny  saw  he  looked 
troubled  and  anxious,  though  one  would  have 
needed  to  know  him  as  thoroughly  as  she  did  to 
perceive  it.  After  a  while  both  the  guests  rose, 
e\*en  Alleyne  feeling  that  he  ought  to  leave  the 
uncle  and  niece  together. 

"Will  you  be  able  to  go  out  on  horseback,  as 
we  proposed  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Of  course  she  will,"  said  St.  Simon,  over 
hearing.  "  I  did  not  eome  to  make  myself  a 
bore  by  upsetting  your  arrangements.  And  you 
will  both  dine  with  us.  Fan,  can't  we  have  the 
Castlemaines  and  Miss  Devereux  too  ?  I  know 
they  are  here." 

"  I  dare  say  they  would  come  if  they  have  no 
other  engagement,"  she  replied. 

"Then  write  a  note,  please.  I  can  stay  so 
short  a  time,  and  I  want  it  as  pleasant  as  pos 
sible." 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone  Fanny  asked 
eagerly  if  any  thing  had  gone  wrong  about  the 
business.  He  assured  her  that  all  was  going  as 
well  as  possible,  so  she  could  only  conclude  he 
had  been  losing  money  at  the  roulette  table. 
Troubled  he  was,  she  felt  confident  of  that ;  be 
set,  too,  by  a  certain  diabolical  irritation  of  which 
she  had  the  full  benefit  during  his  brief  visit,  for 
the  Tortoise  wisely  immured  herself  in  her  room 
and  slept  till  near  dinner-time. 

He  was  furious  to  find  that  Fanny  was  still 
losing  time  —  precious  time,  he  called  it.  He 
wanted  the  marriage  to  take  place  at  once,  and 
spared  neither  argument  nor  reproach,  but  Fanny 
remained  unmoved. 


126 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"You  are  mad!"  he  said;  "hopelessly  mad! 
The  idea  of  wasting  a  moment— of  playing  with 
a  chance  like  yours !" 

"My  dear  St.  Simon,"  returned  she,  "it  is 
your  head,  not  mine,  that  is  a  little  wrong.  You 
have  talked  like  this  ever  since  the  day  Mr.  Al- 
leyne  was  condescending  enough  to  ask  me  to 
marry  him.  Do  be  tranquil ;  he  is  perfectly  sat 
isfied.  " 

"  Is  there  any  day  fixed  ?"  he  inquired. 

"There  will  be  to-morrow;  I  promised  my 
future  lord  and  master  yesterday  to  think  about 
it.  Let  me  see !  On  the  20th  of  October  your 
troubles  shall  end.  I  don't  know  why  I  set  that 
date,  but  it  has  just  offered  itself  to  me  —  the 
20th  of  October  shall  be  my  wedding-day." 

"Almost  six  weeks  off!"  groaned  St.  tsimon. 

"I  could  not  be  ready  before,"  she  replied. 
"Poor  Madame  La  Touche  is  doing  her  best, 
but  you  must  remember  that  times  are  changed  ! 
Once  I  might  have  been  married  anyhow,  any 
way  ;  but  the  niece  of  so  important  a  personage 
as  you  have  become  must  take  a  husband  with 
due  ceremony,  and  have  lots  of  clothes." 

"Oh!  sneer  and  dawdle,  and  be  a  dunce,  if 
you  like !"  cried  he.  "  I  have  done !" 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  pla 
cidity  which  increased  his  ill-temper. 

"I  warn  you,  though  —  it  is  sheer  idiocy! 
Knowing  the  world  as  well  as  you  do — knowing 
that  Alleyne  might  hear  a  hundred  things  about 
us  both  which  would  make  him  fight  off  if  pos 
sible — I  can  not  understand  your  trifling ;  it  is  tfio 
insane  for  endurance!" 

"You  said  you  had  finished,"  observed  Fanny, 
unruffled. 

He  gave  her  an  awful  look,  and,  unable  to 
trust  himself  to  pursue  the  conversation,  flounced 
out  of  the  room.  I  am  aware  that  the  expres 
sion  is  reserved  usually  to  characterize  the  move 
ments  of  the  softer  sex ;  but  there  are  men  who 
flounce  when  in  a  passion,  and  St.  Simon  was 
one  of  them. 

Fanny's  invitation  to  dinner  would  have  been 
promptly  refused  by  Miss  Devereux ;  but  Talbot 
chanced  to  be  present  when  it  arrived,  and  an 
nounced  his  intention  of  accepting.  He  should 
not  go  alone — Helen  made  up  her  mind  to  that ; 
so  she  averred  she  wished  to  go,  and  said  Marian 
would  enjoy  it  too. 

"You  are  sure  it  will  not  tire  you,  Mouse?" 
he  asked ;  and  then  Miss  Devereux  knew  he  de 
sired  them  both  to  remain  at  home. 

"It  will  do  her  good;  she  stays  shut  up  too 
much,"  replied  the  American  before  Lady  Cas- 
tlemaine  could  speak.  "We  will  both  go;  it 
would  be  rude  to  refuse,  and  St.  Simon  is  very 
amusing. " 

The  dinner  proved  a  merry  one,  though  I  think 
among  the  whole  group  no  one  was  perfectly 
comfortable,  with  the  exception  of  the  Tortoise. 
The  fact  that  she  was  surrounded  by  numbers 


always  made  her  happy  when  in  ber  husband's 
society.  St.  Simon  was  in  his  wildest  spirits ; 
but,  watching  him  always,  Fanny  grew  more  and 
more  convinced  that  her  suspicion  of  the  morn 
ing  was  correct — something  troubled  him. 

The  next  day  St.  Simon  continued  his  jour 
ney. 

Fanny  announced  to  her  betrothed  the  decision 
which  had  so  irritated  her  uncle,  and  persisted  in 
it,  though  Alleyne  pleaded  to  have  the  wedding 
take  place  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  She 
assured  him  that  the  20th  of  October  was  the 
earliest  she  could  fix. 

She  had  promised  Castlemaine  to  name  the 
latest  date  practicable  for  her  marriage,  and  she 
meant  to  keep  her  word. 

"It  is  the  last  favor  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you," 
he  had  said.  "Once  you  are  married,  I  will 
take  care  that  fate  does  not  lead  me  in  your  way : 
I  could  not  bear  it — I  could  not !" 

Fanny  knew  that  it  was  very  doubtful  whether 
he  meant  this ;  but  she  intended  it,  at  all  events. 
The  wedding  over,  Alleyne  should  take  her  to 
Italy;  the  following  spring  they  would  go  tq 
America.  She  had  come  to  see  that  there  were 
limits  even  to  her  force  and  will.  It  would  be 
wise  that  a  long  season  should  elapse  before  she 
again  met  Talbot  Castlemaine.  Still  she  did 
not  regret  the  past  weeks ;  restless,  miserable  as 
Alleyne's  return  rendered  her,  absolutely  odious 
as  his  presence  was  growing,  loathsome  as  the 
thought  of  her  marriage  had  become,  she  did  not 
regret  this  renewal  of  her  intercourse  with 
Castlemaine,  though  she  knew  that  all  these  feel 
ings  arose  therefrom. 

"If  I  had  not  seen  him  I  could  have  gone 
on  without  suffering  much,"  she  said,  over  and 
over  to  herself.  "I  did  not  dislike  Alleyne — I 
dare  say  I  should  have  been  quite  comfortable. 
But  I  don't  care !  When  I  first  met  Talbot,  I 
said  I  would  be  happy,  and  I  was.  I  shall  al 
ways  have  these  dear  weeks  to  look  back  on. 
Their  memory  may  leave  the  present  more  unen 
durable,  but  my  very  misery  will  make  that  sea 
son  look  brighter.  I  don't  care." 

So  now  she  told  Alleyne  it  would  be  impossi 
ble  for  her  to  get  ready  before  the  last  weeks  in 
October,  and  he  was  obliged  to  submit. 

"We  will  stay  for  a  fortnight  yet,"  she  said. 
"  The  air  does  T.  so  much  good  that  I  can't  have 
the  heart  to  take  her  away.  I  could  not  hasten 
matters  by  going  to  Paris ;  besides,  I  am  sure  it 
is  very  pleasant  here ;  doiv  t  you  find  it  so  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  ;  the  weather  is  lovely." 

"And  we  have  people  about  us  whom  we 
honestly  like,"  amended  Fanny,  "and  one  does 
not  find  such  at  every  turning.  Miss  Devereux 
is  an  old  friend  of  yours ;  I  am  exceedingly  fond 
of  her  and  the  Castlemaines — of  my  boy,  Roland 
Spencer,  too !  Let  us  stay  and  enjoy  their  soci 
ety  ;  who  knows  when  we  shall  meet  any  of 
them  again  ?" 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


12; 


They  did  remain  at  Creuxville  for  two  whole 
weeks  after  St.  Simon's  departure  —  long  after 
that  gentleman's  return  to  Paris,  'from  whence 
he  wrote  numerous  letters  of  mingled  warning 
and  appeal  to  his  niece,  letters  to  which  the  will 
ful  young  lady  paid  not  the  slightest  attention. 

Fanny's  appreciation  of  every  thing  dramatic 
gave  a  keen  enjoyment  to  the  odd  position  in 
which  they  were  all  placed.  They  were  togeth 
er  a  great  deal ;  naturally  Marian  fell  to  Koland 
Spencer,  Miss  Devereux  to  Alleyne,  and  Fanny 
took  Castlemaine.  She  managed  this  as  adroit 
ly  as  she  did  other  matters ;  whosesoever  work 
it  appeared,  certainly  it  did  not  seem  hers,  and 
nine  times  out  of  ten  one  would  have  thought  it 
Alleyne's  doing — another  little  weapon  ready  to 
Fanny's  hand,  should  she  ever  need  it. 

Miss  Devereux  would  not  go,  and  leave  Marian, 
though  it  was  painful  to  her  to  remain.  At  first 
she  and  Alleyne  would  gladly  have  avoided  one 
another,  but  their  tormentor  found  means  always 
to  prevent  that.  Fanny  hugely  enjoyed  their 
annoyance.  She  knew  very  well  that  in  spite  of 
the  anger  in  their  hearts — in  spite  of  each  be 
lieving  the  other  had  been  unjust,  cruel,  absolute 
ly  false — the  old  dream  possessed  still  a  portion 
of  its  power  on  both. 

"Let  them  suffer,"  she  thought;  "I  want 
them  to.  Why  should  the  pain  be  all  mine? 
Bah !  in  spite  of  their  rigid  ideas  and  their  moral 
sense,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  to  support  them, 
they  have  not  half  my  courage ;  your  good  peo 
ple  are  always  weak.  Let  them  suffer  ;  wasn't 
that  part  of  my  bargain  with  myself — at  least  for 
the  Devereux  ?  And  oh,  my  lady,  I've  not  done 
with  you  yet  —  not  nearly  done!  There's  no 
chance  of  an  explanation  between  them  —  they 
are  both  too  obstinate  for  that ;  they'd  call  the 
feeling  by  some  fine  name,  but  Jt's  just  mulish, 
diabolical  obstinacy.  So  I  run  no  risk  in  any 
way,  not  the  slightest.  It's  not  a  bad  move  ei 
ther,  this  throwing  them  together ;  how  they  do 
writhe  under  it !  and  never  wit  enough  to  circum 
vent  my  little  schemes  —  two  idiots !  Yes,  in 
deed  ;  hereafter  I  shall  have  an  added  hold  on 
my  lord  and  master — my  master — Fanny  St.  Si 
mon's  !  I  shall  tell  him  he  married  me  while 
Helen  Devereux  had  his  heart  —  and  the  Fates 
give  her  joy  of  that  dull,  frigid  .organ !  I'll  re 
mind  him  that  he  discovered  this  before  it  was 
too  late ;  that  he  was  mean  and  base  not  to  own 
the  truth,  and  let  me  set  him  free — always  an  ex 
cuse  for  me  if  I  can  not  keep  up  appearances  in 
our  private  tetes-a- teles!'' 

And  Alleyne  did  suffer,  suffer  keenly.  Before 
Fanny  saw  fit  to  break  up  the  intercourse  of  this 
period,  he  was  forced  to  admit  to  his  conscience 
that  there  had  always  been  a  reason  latent  in  his 
heart  why  the  delays  which  one  after  another 


prevented  their  marriage  were  so  patiently  borne 
by  him. 

The  sentiment  he  had  deemed  love  for  his 
betrothed  wife  refused  to  grow  and  become  the 
absorbing  affection  he  had  hoped  and  believed 
it  might.  It  was  a  kind  of  temporary  fascina 
tion  which  had  beset  him ;  he  began  to  dread 
even  this.  He  perceived,  too,  that  the  idea  of 
seeing  Helen  Devereux  had  helped  to  draw  him 
toward  Fanny.  He  had  desired,  before  meeting 
the  girl  who  had  crushed  his  heart,  to  be  bound 
by  new  ties,  placed  in  a  position  which  would  leave 
him  not  the  slightest  right  to  indulge  in  so  much 
as  a  memory  of  the  past.  He  saw  that  too. 

Alleyne  was  a  man  of  strict  integrity  and  hon 
or,  and  he  felt  terribly  humiliated  and  abased  as 
these  things  gradually  forced  themselves  upon 
his  mind ;  became  so  patent  that  no  sophistry, 
could  he  stoop  to  employ  such,  would  have  hid 
den  their  truth.  Had  this  occurred  during  the 
earlier  days  of  his  engagement,  he  would  have 
told  Fanny  the  whole  truth,  entreated  her  to  be 
patient  with  his  weakness,  to  marry  him  at  once. 
But  now  it  was  impossible  to  speak,  nor  would 
she  listen.  He  must  fight  his  battle  as  best  he 
could,  and  suffer  from  that  sense  of  treachery 
and  guilt  which  haunted  him. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  he  reached  so  clear 
a  stand-point  as  this.  Fanny  had  studied  the 
whole  matter  before  he  recognized  its  potency. 
It  takes  any  of  ns  much  time  to  get  at  the  ex 
act  facts  concerning  ourselves.  Try  as  we  may 
to  act  honestly  toward  others,  the  bravest  of  us 
are  nearly  always  engaged  in  deceiving  our  own 
souls. 

The  days  floated  by  —  the  soft,  golden  days, 
which  ought  to  have  brought  peace  to  the  most 
anxious  heart. 

To  watch  the  little  knot  of  persons  with  whom 
we  have  to  deal,  one  might  have  deemed  the  lot 
of  either  an  enviable  one ;  but  they  bore  heavy 
burdens  about  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  all  the 
same. 

Fanny  had  great  trouble  to  keep  Castlemaine 
in'  reasonable  order,  though  Alleyne  was  too 
much  occupied  by  severe  mental  struggles  to 
notice,  and  in  any  case  too  high-minded  and 
noble  to  have  indulged  in  a  suspicion  toward  his 
affianced.  But  matters  which  escaped  his  ob 
servation  were  apparent  enough  to  Miss  Dever 
eux  and  Roland  Spencer,  though  they  soon  ceased 
to  discuss  them,  for  their  opinions  as  to  where 
the  blame  ought  to  rest  differed  widely. 

Spencer  could  not  reproach  Fanny ;  he  was 
too  loyal  to  the  idol  he  had  set  up.  But  nothing 
interfered  with  his  condemnation  of  Castlemaine, 
and  as  he  had  grown  to  have  a  great  esteem  and 
tenderness  for  Marian,  his  verdict  in  regard  to 
the  careless  husband  was  not  a  gentle  one. 


128 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


CHAPTEB  XXVII. 

HOW    THEY    PARTED. 

THE  fortnight  passed,  and  those  days  came  to 
an  end. 

Lady  Castlemaine  received  a  letter  from  the 
housekeeper  at  the  park  announcing  old  Mrs. 
Payne's  illness — a  very  serious  illness.  It  was 
impossible  to  avoid  going  home  at  once;  even 
Talbot  recognized  this,  enraged  as  he  was  when 
Marian  came  to  him,  tearful  and  alarmed,  to  an 
nounce  the  evil  tidings.  But  he  did  not  give 
way  to  his  temper,  or  reproach  his  wife,  as  many 
men  Avould  have  done  in  his  state  of  mind.  All 
these  annoyances  came  through  her  :  he  thought 
tins,  hut  he  could  feel,  too,  that  she  was  not  in 
fault  —  a  degree  of  decency  certain  better  hus 
bands  would  do  well  to  emulate. 

As  Marian  stood  before  him,  pale  and  grief- 
stricken — for  the  letter  did  not  attempt  to  dis 
guise  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Payne's  state  was  con 
sidered  dangerous  by  the  physicians — the  great 
change  in  his  wife's  looks  for  the  first  time  he- 
came  really  apparent  to  Castlemaine,  palpable 
as  it  had  been  for  weeks  to  every  body  else.  As 
he  noticed  this  alteration,  one  of  his  spasms  of 
remorse  seized  him,  always  as  ill -directed  and 
brief  as  his  efforts  at  doing  right. 

He  felt  remorse,  and  sincere  sympathy  for 
Marian,  even  while  his  passionate  heart  was 
raging  under  the  knowledge  that  he  must  go 
away — must  quit  the  enchantress  who  had  suc 
ceeded  in  casting  a  glamour  so  fresh  and  power 
ful  over  his  fancy  and  his  soul.  Yet  while  he 
inwardly  rebelled  at  this  necessity,  he  was  still 
gazing  at  his  wife,  still  feeling  pity  for  her  and 
detestation  of  himself.  He  remembered  again 
his  eagerness  in  that  season  before  his  marriage. 
Those  grand  resolutions  he  had  formed  to  for 
sake  his  evil  courses  came  back  and  tortured 
him.  Yet  all  the  while  the  time  looked  so  far 
oft',  so  unreal,  that  it  seemed  scarcely  possible  it 
could  have  been  he  who  had  fancied  himself  in 
love  with  this  girl,  he  who  had  dreamed  cJf  won 
derful  deeds  which  should  work  a  redemption  for 
the  miserable  past. 

These  bitter  thoughts  in  the  brief  whirl  of  sec 
onds,  his  wrath  at  having  to  depart  surging  mad 
ly  under  the  whole,  his  eyes  always  fixed  with  a 
vague  pity  on  Marian's  altered  face.  He  saw 
how  the  color  had  faded,  how  pale  it  was,  how 
thin  and  drawn  ;  what  an  expression  of  patient 
sadness  the  soft  eyes  had  assumed.  Ah,  she 
was  very  unlike  the  childish  beauty  who  had 
once  stirred  his  impressionable  nature.  And 
now  he  began  to  transfer  his  pity  to  himself, 
as  an  antidote  to  those  sharp  pangs  of  con 
science. 

"  We  can  go  at  once,  can  we  not  ?  We  need 
not  wait  ?"  Marian  asked,  eagerly,  bringing  him 
out  of  his  strange,  distracting  reflections. 

There  was  only  one  answer  possible,  without 


nearing  the  verge  of  brutality,  and  Castlemaine 
was  incapable  of  that. 

"Of  course  not,  Mouse;  we  will  go  at  once. 
But  don't  be  too  much  alarmed  ;  old  Mrs.  Carey 
is  always  in  extremes.  I  dare  say  we  shall  find 
the  grandmamma  less  ill  than  you  expect." 

"She  has  had  one  or  two  similar  attacks," 
Marian  said,  swallowing  down  her  tears.  Even 
then  she  could  recollect  how  crying  distressed 
and  annoyed  her  husband.  It  was  very  good  of 
him  to  be  so  ready  to  go ;  she  had  half  feared 
being  sent  alone.  "But  she  must  be  extremely 
ill !  And  we  can  start  to-day  ?  You  are  very 
kind,  Talbot." 

What  a  hopeless,  patient  ring  her  voice  had 
caught!  He  had  not  noticed  it  before.  He 
hated  to  hear  it. 

"Of  course,  child.  Let  me  see;  we  are  so 
near  Havre,  the  best  way  is  to  cross  from  there 
to  Southampton.  We  can  catch  to-night's  boat. 
Don't  cry,  Marian.  Don't  look  so  distressed. 
I  am  convinced  we  shall  find  her  better." 

"I'm  not  crying,"  she  answered,  with  a  wa 
tery  smile.  "You  are  very  good  to  me,  Talbot. 
I  am  sony  to  be  such  a  bother.  I  know  you 
hate  sudden  journeys." 

"Now,  don't  make  me  feel  that  you  think  me 
a  selfish  brute,"  cried  he,  irritably,  though  laugh 
ing  as  he  spoke.  "Be  off,  and  tell  your  maid 
to  get  every  thing  ready.  Just  give  the  orders 
to  Antoine  also.  I  am  going  out  for  a  while." 

He  was  going  to  bid  Fanny  St.  Simon  fare 
well  ;  Marian  knew  that.  Always  she  must  sub 
mit  to  such  things  :  she  knew  that  too.  There 
would  always  be  some  woman  he  was  going  to 
welcome  or  to  bid  farewell ;  flirtation  was  a  nec 
essary  part  of  his  existence. 

Perhaps  he  loved  her  (Marian),  but  it  was  not 
like  the  love  she  had  pictured — not  the  love  he 
had  promised.  Life  had  grown  dull  and  blank 
and  empty ;  it  was  difficult  to  have  patience. 
He  must  love  her ;  why  should  he  have  married 
her  else  ?  She  had  neither  rank,  nor  fortune, 
nor  great  beauty — nothing  but  her  affection  to 
make  her  worth  the  taking.  Ah,  had  that  been 
it?  Had  she  shown  her  heart  in  her  eyes  so 
plainly,  that  pity  roused  a  kind  of  tenderness  in 
his  breast  ?  There  were  seasons  when  she  was 
obliged  to  fear  this,  and  then  she  felt  that  her 
burden  was  harder  than  she  could  bear.  If  she 
could  only  die,  and  leave  him  free  ! 

Oh,  if  he  had  not  needed  her !  if  she  could 
not  enter  into  and  form  half  his  life,  why  had 
he  not  left  her  alone  ?  This  was  not  living — 
this  was  not  marriage !  She  might  better  have 
died  in  that  dreadful  fever,  and  been  done. 

She  thought  over  these  things  when  lie  left 
her,  as  she  had  thought  of  them  day  and  night 
for  weeks  arid  weeks. 

She  went  to  recommend  Christine  and  An 
toine  to  make  all  possible  haste ;  then  she  passed 
on  to  Miss  Devereux's  room,  to  tell  her  of  their 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


hurried  departure.  Miss  Devereux  was  sympa 
thetic  enough — much  more  demonstrative  than 
usual. 

"If  you  like,  I  will  go  with  you,"  she  said, 
after  doing  her  best  to  comfort  Marian  by  letting 
her  shed  freely  the  tears  which  had  been  kept 
back  through  fear  of  distressing  Castlemaine. 

"It  does  one  good  to  cry," Marian  said,  when 
she  recovered  her  composure.  "I  couldn't  cry 
before  Talbot ;  it  worries  him  so." 

Miss  Devereux  understood ;  not  one  of  Mar 
ian's  struggles  escaped  her.  But  there  was  noth 
ing  to  answer ;  Marian  never  spoke  of  her  griefs 
or  disappointments.  Miss  Devereux  had,  days 
before,  given  Talbot  one  energetic  lecture,  but  it 
only  caused  him  to  avoid  her  in  sullen  ill-temper. 
So  now,  when  Marian's  words  showed  her  anoth 
er  proof  of  the  weary  self-contained  life  the  girl 
was  forced  to  lead,  Miss  Devereux  did  not  ap 
pear  to  notice  it ;  she  only  repeated, 

"If  I  can  help  you,  Marian,  I  shall  go  will 
ingly." 

"I  think— I—" 

Marian  hesitated.  "She  would  have  given 
much  for  Miss  Devereux's  companionship,  but 
she  knew  that  Talbot  did  not  like  her  as  former 
ly  ;  he  would  be  displeased  at  having  her  thrust 
upon  him. 

"You  are  so  good,"  she  began  again,  after  a 
brief,  confused  silence.  "No;  I  shall  have  to 
be  with  grandma  all  the  while ;  it  would  be  dull 
for  you." 

"I  hope  yon  would  not  hesitate  on  that  ac 
count,"  Miss  Devereux  said,  rather  dryly. 

"Oh,  Helen!  —  dear  Helen !"  cried  Marian, 
reproachfully,  but  she  offered  no  explanation. 

Miss  Devereux's  heart  softened ;  the  real  rea 
son  occurred  to  her :  Marian  feared  that  her 
presence  would  annoy  Castlemaine. 

"  If  you  find  I  can  be  of  use,  you  will  send  ?" 
she  asked.  "I  dare  say  you  are  right:  I  could 
not  do  any  good  now ;  but  when  the  dear  grand 
mother  begins  to  get  better,  then  I  will  come." 

"  You  are  not  vexed  ?  Yon  know  I  love  you !" 
pleaded  Marian,  with  an  impulsiveness  which  she 
seldom  showed  nowadays.  "  Say  that  you  are 
sure  of  that,  Helen !" 

"Of  course  I  am  sure,  Mouse — quite  sure," 
Miss  Devereux  answered,  trying  to  speak  play 
fully  in  order  to  hide  her  emotion.  "As  for  be 
ing  vexed,  what  a  cross-grained  thing  you  must 
think  me  grown  to  suppose  it  possible!" 

"  No,  dear — no!  you  are  what  you  always 
were,  the  kindest,  best  girl  in  the  world,"  return 
ed  Marian.  "But  I  know  I  have  been  dull  and 
stupid  since  you  came ;  when  one  is  not  well,  one 
gets  tiresome  ways ;  and  I  could  not  have  you 
think  I  loved  you  less — " 

Her  voice  was  so  choked  with  tears  that  she 
had  to  pause ;  yet  she  did  not  weep. 

"  I  have  never  thought  that,  Marian  ;  I  could 
never  think  it,"  Miss  Devereux  said.  "Were 
9 


you  really  to  change  in  your  manner  toward  me, 
I  should  know  the  old  tenderness  was  in  your 
heart  still." 

"Yes,  dear,  always — always." 

They  were  both  contemplating  the  same  pos 
sibility,  that  their  future  intercourse  might  never 
be  so  free  and  untrr.mmeled  as  the  past  had  been. 
A  dislike  once  implanted  in  Talbot's  mind  grew 
rapidly,  and  he  had  begun  to  feel  ashamed  in 
Miss  Devereux's  presence.  Helen  knew,  too, 
that  Fanny  St.  Simon  had  fostered  this  inimical 
feeling  by  every  means  in  her  power.  It  might 
easily  come  about  that  she  and  Marian  could 
never  go  back  to  the  intimacy  of  the  old  days. 

"But,  Marian,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "remem 
ber  your  promise  to  send  for  me  if  I  can  be  of 
the  least  use.  You  will  not  forget  ?" 

"Forget? — oh,  Helen!  And  I  love  you — I 
do  love  you!  Say  that  you  forgive  any  thing 
that  has  seemed  cold  or  stupid.  I  did  not  mean 
it — I  could  not  mean  it." 

Miss  Devereux  just  took  her  in  her  arms  and 
cried.  She  could  not  shed  tears  for  her  own 
troubles,  but  it  almost  broke  her  heart  to  see  the 
alteration  in  this  child — to  think  what  had  caused 
it,  and  to  remember  that  in  a  way  she  must  blame 
herself  for  Marian's  misery.  If  she  had  only 
been  less  credulous,  had  insisted  upon  a  longer 
trial !  Yet  she  could  have  done  nothing  in  reali 
ty  ;  Talbot's  sophistries  would  have  outweighed 
her  arguments ;  nay,  Marian  would  have  obeyed 
his  slightest  wish,  and  deemed  it  disloyalty  to 
hesitate. 

The  two  spent  the  morning  together,  getting 
back  to  safer  topics  of  conversation.  When  Hel 
en  left  her,  Marian  fell  to  thinking  again.  She 
remembered  that  at  least  she  would  have  Talbot 
to  herself  for  a  time;  no  one  could  stand  be 
tween.  Oh !  perhaps  in  the  quiet  of  the  next  few 
weeks  a  change  might  come.  Perhaps  they 
might  return  to  something  like  the  happiness  of 
those  opening  days  of  marriage,  when  they  seem 
ed  lifted  above  the  common  earth,  when  heaven 
looked  so  near  that  each  passing  breeze  floated 
straight  out  of  paradise,  and  all  sights  and  sounds 
of  beauty  appeared  a  part  of  her  Eden. 

If  she  might  only  have  one  brief  vision  like  that 
before  death  took  her,  she  could  be  quite  content 
to  go. 

Some  such  possibility  as  this  upon  which  Mar 
ian  dwelt  with  a  feeling  of  rest  suggested  itself 
to  Miss  Devereux's  mind  also,  and  that  evening, 
when  she  and  Roland  Spencer  were  discussing  the 
departure,  they  agreed  it  might  be  the  best  thing 
which  could  happen. 

"If  he  will  only  stay  at  the  Park,"  Roland 
added,  doubtfully. 

"But  he  can  not  leave  her;  indeed,  if  he  can 
only  be  made  to  see  how  Marian  is  changed,  I  am 
sure  he  will  not,"  Miss  Devereux  said.  "  Before 
they  left  I  spoke  out.  If  I  could  alarm  him  about 
the  poor  child's  state,  I  meant  to  do  it." 


130 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


It  was  almost  a  settled  thing  in  both  their 
minds  that  Marian  was  not  to  live  long;  and 
neither,  contemplating  the  probable  earthly  future 
which  would  lie  before  her,  could  grieve  at  the 
idea  of  her  release. 

"Nothing  will  make  him  open  his  eyes,"  Ro 
land  replied ;  "he  will  stay  willfully  blind  up  to 
the  last,  and  then  moan  tremendously.  His  is  a 
hopeless  case,  Miss  Devereux ;  you  may  as  well 
believe  it." 

The  young  man  was  a  very  harsh  judge,  in 
these  days,  of  Talbot  Castlemaine's  conduct; 
more  to  screen  Fanny  in  his  own  opinion  than 
from  any  other  reason. 

The  baronet  had  gone  straight  to  Miss  St.  Si 
mon  on  leaving  his  wife.  He  knew  that  he 
should  find  her  alone.  She  had  arranged  to  have 
a  visit  from  him  this  morning,  and  had  sent  Al- 
leyne  off  on  an.  expedition  in  Eoland  Spencer's 
company,  managing  it  days  in  advance  with  her 
usual  art.  She  enjoyed  compassing  such  things, 
trifles  as  they  were. 

So  Castlemaine  entered  the  room  where  she 
sat  in  a  pleasant  gloom — a  room  odorous  with 
beautiful  flowers ;  she  sitting  there  in  her  pale- 
amber  robes,  whose  delicate  texture  showed  the 
contours  of  her  exquisite  neck  and  arms.  Her 
face  wore  a  soft  flush  of  expectation  ;  her  eyes 
turned  toward  the  door  as  he  appeared,  with  a 
look  which  might  have  unsteadied  stouter  nerves 
than  his. 

"You  begged  so  hard  for  this  morning,  and 
now  you  are  a  half  hour  late,"  cried  she,  as  he 
came  in. 

He  hurried  up  and  took  her  hands ;  his  agi 
tation  was  real  enough  ;  the  sight  of  her  perilous 
beauty  drove  him  mad. 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"Ah,  indeed !  Well,  I  advised  you  to  do  that 
some  time  ago,"  returned  she,  laughing,  though 
his  words  struck  her  like  an  icy  wind.  "But 
you  needn't  take  both  my  hands  on  that  account 
—civilized  people  only  take  one." 

"Don't  laugh  ! — don't  tease  me!"  he  exclaim 
ed.  "  Did  you  hear  ?  I  am  going  away." 

"I  wish  you  a  pleasant  journey,"  said  she, 
bending  over  a  vase  of  flowers  on  the  table  by 
her. 

"Great  God,  what  an  idiot  I  am !"  he  exclaim 
ed,  furiously. 

"You  know  I  detest  swearing,"  returned  she. 

"And  you  don't  care?"  he  cried. 

"I  have  just  told  you  I  hated  swearing,"  she 
replied. 

He  dashed  his  hat  on  the  table ;  it  was  a  re 
lief  to  bang  something. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  you  are  enough  to  make  one 
believe  in  the  old  legends,"  he  said;  "Circe — 
Medea — any  of  that  set — must  have  looked  and 
acted  like  you." 

She  raised  her  head ;  the  provoking  smile 
played  about  her  lips  still,  but  her  eyes  were  full 


of  reproach.  She  had  been  afraid  at  first  to 
question  .him  ;  the  news  of  his  departure  had  so 
shaken  her  that  she  was  fearful  of  betraying  her 
misery  and  pain,  unless  she  snatched  a  little  space 
to  get  composure  back  by  tantalizing  words. 

"Why  are  you  cross  with  me?"  she  asked, 
plaintively.  "You  come  and  blurt  out  that  you 
are  going  away— then  rush  into  a  fury,  as  if  it 
were  my  fault." 

"  Neither  my  fault  nor  yours,"  he  answered  ; 
"just  my  odious,  accursed  fate,  that  holds  me 
fast  as  usual." 

"Going  away,"  she  continued,  musingly. 
"Ah,  well,  we  have  had  a  few  very  pleasant 
weeks ;  I  shall  remember  them.  Do  you  think 
of  them  sometimes  too,  Talbot  ?" 

"  When  shall  I  ever  think  of  any  thing  else? 
Don't  you  see  I  am  out  of  my  senses — mad  at 
the  idea  of  going  ?" 

She  held  up  the  white  hand  which  had  so  often 
of  late  been  forced  to  give  warning  that  he  was 
straying  upon  forbidden  ground. 

"  One  is  sorry  at  leaving  one's  friends,  but  one 
doesn't  go  mad,"  she  replied.  "Where  are  you 
going?  and  what  is  the  reason  of  this  sudden 
departure  ?" 

"Marian's  old  grandmother  is  ill  —  dying; 
she  must  go  to  her  at  once ;  and  I  can't,  in  de 
cency,  let  her  travel  alone." 

"Of  course  not;  and  a  married  man's  duty 
must  be  his  pleasure  too,"  returned  she,  in  a  cold, 
disdainful  voice.  "Dear  me!  there'll  be  dying 
speeches  and  fainting  fits,  and  promises  on  your 
part  to  the  departing  spirit — how  very  exciting ! 
Not  quite  in  your  line,  though." 

"I  was  a  fool  to  come  here  and  tell  you !"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  might  have  known  you  would 
only  jibe  and  torment  me !  You  don't  care  in 
the  least ;  you  are  glad  to  be  rid  of  me." 

She  could  tease  and  worry  him,  yet  his  re 
proaches  stung  her  heart  into  fresh  anger  and 
suffering. 

"  Why  should  I  care ?"  she  cried.  "What  is 
your  staying  or  your  going  to  me  ?  We  are  very 
good  friends — every  body  is  that.  You'll  forget 
easily  enough ;  yours  is  not  a  troublesome  mem 
ory,  Talbot  Castlemaine." 

"Fanny,  I  am  almost  desperate  now;  don't 
drive  me  out  of  what  gleam  of  reason  I  have 
left!"  he  said,  brokenly.  "See  here;  I  have 
been  patient,  I  have  held  my  tongue,  I  have  act 
ed  up  to  the  letter  of  the  conditions  you  insisted 
upon — you  can't  deny  it." 

"You  have  been  very  good — very,"  she  an 
swered,  stretching  out  her  hand. 

He  took  it  and  pressed  his  hot  lips  on  the 
palm  —  twice  —  thrice.  The  touch  of  that  fe 
vered  kiss  rendered  her  absolutely  faint.  She 
drew  her  hand  away,  and  moved  her  chair  ab 
ruptly  back. 

"Then  be  kind  to  me  now,"  he  pleaded. 
"  Let  me  have  a  little  reward ;  just  a  few  gentle 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


131 


words !  Heaven  only  knows  when  we  shall  meet 
again." 

"Not  for  a  long,  long  time,  Talbot,"she  re 
plied;  "not  until  I  am  old  and  wrinkled  and 
ugly;  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  that." 

"I  will  see  you!"  he  cried,  passionately. 
"I'll  not  give  up  the  one  poor  hit  of  happiness 
this  world  has  left  for  me.  Not  see  me !  Then 
you  shall  hear  the  truth  now  at  least — I  love 
you !  I  love  you  ! " 

He  started  to  his  feet,  and  tried  to  catch  her 
in  his  arms.  She  rose,  and  walked  toward  the 
door  without  a  word. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?" 
he  called. 

"  If  this  is  what  you  have  to  say,  our  farewell 
is  said  already,"  she  answered,  looking  at  him 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Come  back;  I  forgot  myself.  Oh,  Fanny, 
one  is  not  angry  at  a  madman !  Forgive  me, 
do  forgive  me ! " 

"Then  go  and  sit  down,"  she  said,  sternly. 

He  obeyed. 

"  How  could  you  say  that  ?"  he  continued,  aft 
er  a  moment's  silence,  as  she  resumed  her  seat. 
"  How  can  you  talk  of  never  seeing  me  again  ?" 

"Because  it  must  be  so,"  she  replied.  "I 
did  think  we  might  be  friends,  but  these  last 
days  have  shown  me  that  our  lives  must  sepa 
rate  here  and  forever." 

"And  it  does  not  hurt  you  to  say  that?" 

"Oh,  my  hurts — I'm  not  accustomed  to  pay 
ing  much  attention  to  them,"  she  said,  with  re 
strained  bitterness.  "Life  has  been  hard  on 
me,  but  I  am  used  to  pain." 

"And  part  came  through  me,"  he  cried. 
' '  You  did  care,  Fanny ;  you  may  deny  it,  but 
you  did  care !  See — we  are  parting  now ;  you 
are  right  when  you  say  it  is  best  we  should  not 
meet  again,  but  own  that  you  did  care." 

Oh,  that  face  bent  toward  her — that  perfect, 
glorious  face,  likp  the  countenance  the  old  faith 
gave  to  some  god  gifted  with  eternal  youth ! 
Oh,  those  eager  eyes,  burning  into  her  very 
heart !  Oh,  that  proud  mouth,  with  its  mourn 
ful  smiles,  its  sensitive  trembling,  whose  every 
change  had  power  to  fire  her  soul!  Oh,  that 
one  love  of  her  thwarted,  miserable  life!  Oh, 
her  precious  dream — her  sole,  golden  hope  shat 
tered  in  its  prime !  She  was  losing  him — losing 
the  last  ray  of  sunshine  her  days  could  ever  hold. 

These  thoughts  in  her  mind  while  he  poured 
out  passionate  laments  which  she  scarcely  heard, 
her  eyes  on  his  face,  her  soul  in  them,  trying  to 
stamp  that  beauty  still  more  indelibly  upon  her 
heart ;  in  all  time  to  come  she  should  have  noth 
ing  but  that  memory  left. 

"You  will  not  speak,  you  will  not  give  me 
even  that  poor  comfort  to  take  with  me  into  the 
darkness.  Oh,  my  God !  Fanny,  if  I  were  dy 
ing,  you  would  not  refuse  to  own  the  truth !  It 
is  just  the  same ;  death  could  not  part  us  more 


effectually  than  we  are  parted  now !  I  shall 
never  see  you  any  more — never  any  more!  I 
couldn't — you  are  right ;  to  see  you  married,  to 
know — oh,  I  should  murder  that  man  before  your 
eyes ! " 

He  flung  his  head  upon  the  table  and  groaned 
aloud.  She  was  white  as  a  ghost ;  nothing  looked 
alive  about  her  except  the  great  brown  eyes  di 
lated  with  agony. 

"You  suffer,"  she  said,  in  a  strange  voice, 
"you  suffer!  Well,  I  have  suffered  first  and 
last  also." 

"  Yes,  I  do  suffer ;  and  you  have  no  pity." 

"I  never  had  any  for  myself,"  she  answered. 
"  You  have  said  hard  things  to  me  this  morning, 
Talbot ;  you  have  said  many  such  during  the 
past  weeks.  It  is  a  man's  way ;  you  men  always 
hurt  the  thing  you  fancy  you  love. " 

"If  there  was  any  thing  for  which  you  wanted 
revenge,  you  have  it,"  he  said,  raising  his  trou 
bled  countenance.  "I  am  wretched  enough  to 
satisfy  even  you,  Fanny." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  wretched,"  she  cried 
out,  her  fingers  twisting  themselves  together,  her 
head  moving  wearily  from  side  to  side  like  a  per 
son  struggling  against  the  delirium  of  fever.  "I 
did  want  you  to  be  when  we  met  at  Baden,  I'll 
own  that.  I  had  no  more  pity  for  you  than  for 
myself;  but  it  hurts  me  so — I  can't  bear  it.  I'd 
rather  tell  you  any  thing  than  see  you  suffer  like 
this !  I  think  I  have  not  much  pride ;  oh,  Tal 
bot,  Talbot!" 

He  was  on  his  feet  again  ;  her  look  and  gest 
ure  stopped  him. 

"Don't  make  it  all  worse  than  it  is,"  she  said. 
"  Suppose  we  were  dead,  and  met,  we  should  tell 
the  truth  quietly.  We  are  the  same  as  dead ;  let 
us  do  it  now." 

"Fanny,  Fanny!" 

"You  want  to  know  if  I  cared;  you  fancy  I 
did,  but  you  don't  know  how  much.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you ;  why  should  I  ?  Care !  Oh, 
my  God,  Talbot !  Do  you  remember  when  we 
parted  in  Italy  ?  It  was  you  who  went  away." 

"Fanny,  have  a  little  mercy !" 

"Do  you  remember  when  we  met  afterward? 
It  was  you  who  went  away." 

"You  hate  me;  you  must  hate  me,  or  you 
could  not  torture  me  like  this !"  he  moaned. 

"Do  you  remember  last  autumn,  when  we 
met  in  the  street  ?"  she  continued,  in  the  same 
hollow  tone,  her  hands  always  twisting  them 
selves  slowly  together,  her  head  moving  from 
side  to  side.  "I  was  quiet  enough;  you  want 
ed  to  go.  I  couldn't  keep  you." 

"How  could  I  stay!  You  know  how  I  was 
hemmed  in  ;  fettered  by  debts — " 

"I  am  not  blaming  you,  but  you  wanted  the 
truth.  The  truth,  oh,  great  Heaven!  Talbot 
Castlemaine,  I  found  I  was  going  to  be  rich ; 
I  had  just  one  thought — of  you!  I  said  you 
cared — you  would  come  back  to  me  if  only  we 


132 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


had  means  to  live ;  I  said  your  feeling  for  me 
had  been  different  from  that  yon  had  given  to 
any  other  woman — " 

"And  it  was  true,"  he  broke  in. 

"I  said,"  she  went  on,  not  heeding,  "that  it 
would  be  sweet  to  make  the  world  bright  and 
easy  for  you !  I  dreamed — dreamed  for  weeks 
— oh,  this  life  of  ours !  I  wrote  to  you ;  how 
could  I  be  sure  you  were  true  ?  I  could  only 
write  of  the  change  in  my  fortune,  but  I  think 
all  my  heart  must  have  been  in  my  letter.  I  told 
you,  Talbot,  that  you  had  humbled  my  pride." 

"You  wrote  to  me  ?"  he  repeated.  "  When  ? 
I  never  knew." 

"No,  of  course  not;  wait!  I  wrote  my  let 
ter  ;  I  spent  that  last  night  awake — the  last  night 
of  my  dream,  my  beautiful  dream !  And  then 
the  end  came;  you  were  married.  Talbot,  I 
tore  up  my  letter ;  I  tore  up  my  heart  with  it ! 
You  wanted  to  hear  the  truth;  you  have  it 
now." 

"  If  I  had  known— " 

"  There  is  no  good  of  any  more  words,"  she 
interrupted.  "  You  and  I  have  come  to  the  end. 
Go  away  now.  There  is  nothing  more  to  tell; 
we  have  come  to  the  end !" 

He  rose  again ;  his  features  were  livid  and 
seamed  with  anguish,  his  beautiful  blue  eyes 
looked  actually  dead  and  cold.  Keen  and  easily 
roused  were  this  man's  faculties  of  suffering — as 
sensitive  as  his  capabilities  of  enjoyment — and 
they  were  awakened  to  their  utmost  in  this  part 
ing.  He  believed  now  that  if  he  could  have 
claimed  and  kept  this  woman  for  his  own,  the 
spell  of  her  fascinations  would  be  as  lasting  as  it 
was  strong;  and  it  is  certain  no  other  human 
creature  ever  possessed  a  tithe  of  the  power  over 
him  which  she  had  gained. 

He  stood  before  her  a  few  instants  in  silence. 
She  did  not  attempt  to  speak;  she  had  reached 
the  limits  of  her  self-control,  and  she  beheld  her 
misery  reflected  in  his  face.  Presently  he  said, 
in  an  odd,  repressed  voice, 

"Will  you  give  me  your  hand,  Fanny?  It  is 
the  last  time,  you  know." 

She  held  up  her  perfect  hand,  then  drew  it 
back,  saying,  piteously, 

"You  kissed  it  once  there  —  and  there!  I 
never  wear  rings  on  those  fingers,  Talbot,  because 
I  can  feel  those  kisses  yet !  It  is  another  man's 
hand  now ;  I  can  not  give  it  you  again." 

"And  it  is  all  over,  all  over!"  he  moaned. 

"All  over,"  she  repeated;  "the  end  has 
come." 

He  turned  away  and  sat  down  again  in  the 
nearest  chair,  hiding  his  face  on  his  arm. 

She  went  swiftly  up  to  him ;  before  he  could 
stir  she  pressed  her  icy  lips  upon  his  forehead — 
once— twice.  Her  hand  fluttered  like  a  bird's 
wing  across  his  golden  curls ;  then  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A  MORNING   CALL. 

THE  Castlemaines  departed  ;  Fanny  began  to 
cast  about  for  excuses  to  leave  Creuxville.  Miss 
Devereux  unintentionally  aided  her.  Only  the 
day  after  Sir  Talbot  and  his  wife  sailed  for  En 
gland,  Eoland  Spencer  met  Fanny  and  Alleyne 
on  the  beach,  and  told  them  Helen  was  going 
away,  adding  that  he  should  very  soon  say  adieu 
himself. 

"  So  we  are  deserted,"  Fanny  said,  as  Roland 
walked  on.  "This  place  would  be  detestable 
with  our  friends  all  absent ;  you  would  look  so 
bored  that  I  should  quarrel  with  you !  Well,  I 
ought  to  be  gone  to  Paris.  Poor  Madame  La 
Touche  keeps  writing  piteous  appeals ;  she  can 
get  no  farther  without  my  interesting  presence. 
Besides,  St.  Simon  is  doleful  at  my  deserting  him 
now,  when  we  have  so  little  time  to  spend  to 
gether." 

"Then  Paris  it  shall  be,"  Alleyne  answered, 
trying  to  appear  cheerful  and  interested. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  a  bit,"  cried  Fan 
ny ;  "  and  no  wonder — it  will  be  as  dull  as  a 
tomb." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall  mind  that,"  he  said. 

"Ah!  but  I  shall,"  returned  she.  "For  ten 
days  or  more  I  shall  be  busy  every  moment — you 
will  certainly  get  cross  and  reproach  me  ;  besides, 
I  have  heard  you  say  twenty  times  that  you  de 
tested  cities  in  the  early  autumn." 

"All  of  which,  I  trust,  is  not  to  condemn  me 
to  Creuxville  ?" 

"No;  I  am  not  quite  hard-hearted  enough 
for  that,"  she  replied,  laughing.  "  But  I  will  tell 
you  what  occurs  to  me  as  a  good  idea." 

"Well?" 

"You  have  seen  nothing  of  Normandy,"  pur 
sued  Fanny.  "If  I  were  you,  I  should  seize 
this  opportunity  to  make  a  little  tour ;  it  is  beau 
tiful  weather.  I  wish  I  could  go  ;  but  there  is 
no  help  for  it :  I  must  away  to  dress-makers  and 
other  tiresome  wretches.  Lucky  St.  Simon  does 
not  hear ;  he  would  want  to  know  if  I  included 
him  among  the  abominations  !" 

"You  banish  me  very  coolly,"  Alleyne  said, 
half  amused,  half  annoyed. 

"It  does  look  like  that,  does  it  not  ?"  return 
ed  she.  "But  try  not  to  be  unjust,  though  you 
are  a  man.  As  I  told  you,  I  shall  be  busy  every 
moment :  I  venture  to  think  you  would  be  bored  ; 
but  perhaps  I  flatter  myself  too  much." 

"No,"  he  replied,  simply ;  and  Fanny  mental 
ly  called  him  a  stone. 

"You  admit  that  the  time  might  hang  heavy 
on  your  hands  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes ;"  only  a  monosyllable  again. 

"If  you  go  through  Normandy,  you  will  be 
interested  and  amused,"  she  continued,  "and 
that  you  have  not  been  lately." 

He  had  never  heard  her  voice  take  its  sharp, 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


133 


disagreeable  tone  before,  and  he  regarded  her  in 
surprise. 

"Have  I  done  any  thing  to  vex  you?"  he 
asked. 

' '  Oh  dear,  no ;  but  you  have  been  bored. 
Well,  you  shall  have  your  fortnight  of  solitary 
meditation !  If  at  the  end  of  it  you  come  and 
say  you  find  you  have  made  a  bad  bargain,  I 
promise  not  to  be  either  lachrymose  or  vindic 
tive." 

"  Fanny,  do  not  jest  on  a  matter  like  that !" 

"Are  you  angry?" 

"  No ;  but  so  serious  a  thing — " 

"  Yes ;  please  don't  scold  me !" 

"Am  I  in  the  habit  of  doing  that  ?" 

"Oh !  no,  no!  How  you  do  take  me  aupied 
de  la  lettre  this  morning !  more  of  those  French 
phrases  you  hate.  There,  I'll  not  be  naughty, 
and  do  not  you  be  grim  and  awful.  About  the 
Normandy  excursion  ?" 

"It  will  be  rather  dull  to  set  off  alone." 

"I  dare  say  Roland  Spencer  would  go, "she 
said.  "Dear  me!  for  that  matter,  I  heard  Miss 
Devereux  say  the  other  day  that  she  felt  like 
sending  for  her  step-mother,  and  drifting  away 
on  some  tour." 

He  looked  keenly  at  her ;  there  was  no  sign 
that  she  had  meant  other  than  an  idle  common 
place  or  careless  bit  of  nonsense.  She  often  talk 
ed  to  him  of  Miss  Devereux,  nowadays,  and 
sometimes  he  winced ;  but  she  never  appeared  to 
notice  it.  He  was  ashamed  to  admit  that  this 
proposal,  which  would  offer  a  brief  season  of  sol 
itude  and  liberty,  did  not  strike  his  fancy  un 
pleasantly. 

"I  do  dislike  a  city  so  early  as  this," he  said, 
ignoring  her  observation  in  regard  to  their  young 
countrywoman. 

"I  should  think  every  body  must,  unless  it  be 
some  genuine  town  lover,  like  St.  Simon,"  she 
answered. 

"Will  you  have  leisure  to  miss  me?"  he  ask 
ed,  feeling  that  such  remark  was  called  for;  in 
dignant  with  himself  that  it  was  difficult  to  find 
a  suitable  one. 

"At  least  I  promise  when  you  reach  Paris 
not  to  &e  in  a  constant  state  of  trying  things  on, 
and  wondering  what  I  am  to  buy  next."  She 
laughed,  and  made  him  laugh  too.  "But  you 
must  persuade  Roland  to  go," she  added;  "it 
will  be  a  kindness — keep  him  out  of  mischief, 
which  he  will  get  into  if  he  goes  to  Paris." 

Then  Alleyne  could  only  say  that  he  would 
beg  the  young  man's  company. 

But  Roland  Spencer  had  no  mind  to  undertake 
an  excursion  with  Mr.  Alleyne.  He  fully  recog 
nized  that  gentleman's  good  qualities ;  he  was 
glad  for  Fanny's  sake ;  but  the  hurt  and  the  pain 
of  the  past  winter  had  left  too  deep  a  wound  for 
him  to  accept  such  close  companionship  with  the 
man  who  had  won  the  prize  he  coveted.  He 
did  not  covet  it  now,  though  ;  his  heart  was  very 


tender  toward  Fanny,  but  he  blamed  her  too 
much  for  the  eager  love  not  to  have  suffered  dim 
inution.  It  was  a  shock  to  him  that  she  could 
marry  a  man  for  whom  she  entertained  such 
feelings  (Fanny  attempted  no  secret  with  him  of 
the  loathing  and  disgust  which  filled  her  soul  as 
the  time  for  her  marriage  approached).  It  was 
a  relief  in  the  new  bitterness  she  felt  to  talk  free 
ly  to  some  one,  and  she  did  not  scruple  to  unbur 
den  her  trouble  and  weariness  to  Roland. 

"  You  will  despise  me,"  she  said, "but  I  don't 
care.  From  the  first  I  adopted  you  for  my 
brother.  One  tells  a  brother  every  thing." 

But  he  did  not  despise  her;  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  any  masculine  to  despise  Fanny 
St.  Simon,  whatever  she  said  or  did. 

Roland  was  grieved  and  disappointed ;  but  he 
pitied  her  so  sincerely  that  even  his  condemna 
tion  was  softened. 

"So  he  wants  you  to  go  on  a  tour  with  him," 
she  observed  to  Spencer  the  next  morning. 
"You  must  not  go.  Come,  to  Paris.  I  shall 
not  see  much  more  of  you  for  a  long  time ;  do 
come." 

Fanny  St.  Simon  could  no  more  have  helped 
keeping  some  men  in  subjugatidn,  to  fetch  and 
carry  at  her  bidding,  than  she  could  have  changed 
the  color  of  her  eyes.  Just  now,  too,  she  was 
afraid  of  solitude ;  it  held  such  dreadful  ghosts, 
such  dark  forebodings ! 

As  Spencer  had  announced,  Helen  Devereux 
was  preparing  to  quit  Creuxville.  She  had  only 
remained  on  Marian's  account ;  and  that  motive 
removed,  she  felt  more  eagerness  to  get  away 
than  she  could  find  sober,  sensible  reasons  to  ac 
count  for. 

"  I  am  an  idiot !"  she  said  to  herself.  "  When 
shall  I  grow  wiser?  Well,  I  wanted  to  see 
Gregory  Alleyne,  and  be  satisfied  the  past  was  as 
dead  as  I  tried  to  believe  it.  I  have  seen  him  " 
— she  paused  here  in  her  thoughts.  "Poor 
Gregory!"  she  continued,  rushing  off  from  her 
personal  reflections  with  undignified  precipitation. 
"I  don't  know  why  I  say  poor  Gregory — yes,  I 
do !  I  pity  the  man  who  must  be  Fanny  St. 
Simon's  husband.  But  he  chose  for  himself; 
he  does  not  seem  happy,  though.  Ah  me !  there 
are  mysteries  that  will  never  be  cleared  up  in 
this  world ;  in  the  next  I  suppose  it  will  not  mat 
ter.  No  doubt  I'm  a  goose ;  still,  there  have  been 
times  when — when  little  things  he  said  sounded 
as  if  he  considered  himself  an  ill-used  person — 
that  is  the  man  of  it.  Bah !  Helen  Devereux, 
don't  go  digging  about  old  graves;  there's  noth 
ing  there  but  unsavory  corpses,  and  nettles  grow 
ing  over  them  that  will  sting  your  hands.  It  is 
an  unprofitable  occupation :  let  it  alone,  my 
dear." 

The  day  but  one  after  the  Custlemaines'  de 
parture  she  went  to  bid  adieu  to  Miss  St.  Simon 
and  the  Tortoise.  Ever  since  their  sharp  en 
counter  she  and  Fanny  had  been  so  elaborately 


134 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


civil  to  each  other  that  it  was  a  sight  to  behold. 
Two  men  after  so  keen  a  fencing-match  would 
have  been  rude,  or  not  spoken,  or  found  some 
pretext  for  punching  heads.  But  women  are 
not  such  blundering  idiots.  Either  of  these  girls 
would  have  died  by  inches  rather  than  show  that 
her  antagonist  possessed  the  slightest  power  to 
wound. 

Miss  Devereux  knew  that  at  the  hour  she 
chose  for  her  visit  Gregory  Alleyne  was  seldom 
at  the  house ;  but  when  she  discovered  she  had 
selected  this  precise  time  for  no  other  reason, 
she  was  so  indignant  that  she  deliberately  sat 
down  and  waited,  after  dressing  to  go. 

She  had  not  the  habit  of  returning  to  city 
haunts  so  early  in  the  autumn,  but  there  was  no 
country  place  she  cared  to  seek,  and  the  two  old 
ladies  wrote  her,  pleading  against  further  jour 
neys.  Still  a  third  and  more  important  argu 
ment  urged  her  to  settle  in  Paris.  If  she  went 
off  somewhere  else  she  would  always  be  forced 
to  believe  that  she  .had  feared  to  stay  for  Greg 
ory  Alleyne's  wedding.  She  would  prefer  to 
suffer  the  doom  of  Nessus,  or  have  a  cancer,  or 
endure  any  other  calamity  utterly  fiendish  and 
insupportable,  rather  than  spend  the  rest  of  her 
life  humiliated  by  this  thought. 

Gregory  Alleyne  was  there  when  she  entered 
the  salon.  Fanny  stood  beside  him,  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  It  looked  as  if  she  had  just 
risen  from  an  ottoman  by  his  chair,  but  she  had, 
in  truth,  been  seated  some  distance  off.  When 
the  servant  came  in  with  Miss  Devereux's  card, 
Fanny  crossed  the  room  and  assumed  her  pres 
ent  position,  a  question  she  asked  giving  a  mo 
tive  in  Alleyne's  eyes. 

The  Tortoise,  dozing  in  a  window,  woke  and 
was  delighted  to  see  the  visitor,  though  she  was 
more  vague  and  odd  than  ordinary,  from  the  ef 
fect  of  morphine  Fanny  had  administered  for  a 
neuralgic  attack.  That  young  lady  was  cordial 
and  charming,  and  there  being  nothing  in  par 
ticular  for  Alleyne  to  do,  he  did  nothing  but  rise, 
bow,  and  smile,  according  to  the  stereotyped 
rules  laid  down  for  good  behavior.  Fanny  man 
aged,  however,  to  make  him  share  in  the  talk. 
Every  possible  subject  which  could  rouse  un 
pleasant  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  her  betrothed 
or  her  guest,  she  brought  up  in  carefully  arranged 
sequence. 

She  could  not  live  a  chapter  out  of  a  sensation 
novel ;  she  could  not  ruin  Miss  Deverenx's  beau 
ty  by  slow  poison,  or  shut  her  in  a  cell  and  tor 
ment  her ;  but  there  were  numberless  little  tor 
tures  respectability  permitted,  and  none  of  these 
should  be  spared  the  woman  or  the  man.  For 
she  had  come  to  include  Gregory  Alleyne  in  the 
active  animosity  she  had  so  long  entertained  to 
ward  Helen.  Yes,  she  hated  him  too!  She 
did  not  disguise  the  fact  in  her  reflections ;  she 
uttered  the  ugly  word  boldly,  and  enjoyed  the 
sound. 


A  very  tidy  thrust  occurred  to  her  while  the 
conversation  went  on — a  sweet  little  penance  for 
both — and  she  prepared  to  inflict  it  with  neatness 
and  dispatch. 

The  Tortoise,  always  unusually  animated  in 
he  society  of  these  two  guests,  who  were  her 
special  admiration,  began  to  ask  questions  (her 
dea  of  conversation),  and  presently  inquired  of 
VLiss  Devereux  how  much  longer  she  proposed 
remaining  at  Creuxville. 

'I  am  going  away  to-morrow,"  the  lady  re- 
died;  "I  came  to  make  you  my  adieus,  Mrs. 
St.  Simon." 

" Lor!"  said  the  Tortoise,  " I  wouldn't." 

What  she  meant  was  not  exactly  clear,  but 
jeople  who  knew  her  were  accustomed  to  such 
modes  of  speech. 

"Going  away!"  cried  Fanny,  in  a  dismayed 
tone.     "  It  is  too  bad — positively  cruel !     The 
'astlemaines  are  gone ;  Gregory — Mr.  Alleyne 
— sets  off  on  a  walking  tour,  and  now  you  take 
flight." 

Under  the  circumstances  this  regret  struck 
Miss  Devereux  as  absurd  ;  she  knew  the  damsel 
and  her  aunt  were  likewise  to  depart. 

;'You  leave  for  Paris  also  almost  immediate 
ly,  I  believe,"  she  said,  half  questioningly,  and 
very  dryly.  She  meant  to  show  that  the  sort 
of  St.  Simonian  plaint  was  a  failure,  but  in  truth 
Fanny  had  indulged  it  to  provoke  this  very  re 
mark. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  replied  quickly,  with  a  little, 
conscious  laugh,  "but  I  shall  be  busy.  These 
lazy  days  have  been  so  pleasant,  I  hate  to  see 
them  end ;  your  staying  would  have  given  me 
an  excuse.  Once  in  Paris,  I  shall  not  find  a 
minute  to  myself." 

"She  says  she's  going  to  be  married  in  Octo 
ber,"  added  the  Tortoise,  in  a  wheezy  half-whis 
per,  uttering  the  precise  remark  Fanny  could 
have  desired.  "What  day  was  it,  Mr.  Al 
leyne?" 

"The  20th, "returned  that  gentleman,  lacon 
ically. 

There  are  few  men  who  do  not  feel  a  certain 
embarrassment  in  hearing  their  wedding-day 
discussed.  Alleyne  waxed  rather  stiff  and  awk 
ward — vexed  with  himself,  therefore  ;  but  it  did 
seem  very  odd  to  be  discussing  the  subject  before 
Miss  Devereux. 

"You  will  not  have  any  too  much  time," said 
Helen,  steadily,  looking  at  Fanny  as  she  ad 
dressed  her. 

"No," replied  Fanny.  She  did  a  slight  con 
fusion  very  prettily.  She  was  seated  on  the  sofa 
beside  Alleyne ;  she  moved  quickly  to  the  other 
end,  then  as  quickly  assumed  her  former  posi 
tion,  apparently  ashamed  of  such  girlish  behav 
ior.  "Now  that  T.  has  made  us  both  look  fool 
ish,"  she  continued,  glancing  at  Alleyne,  but 
speaking  to  Helen,  "I  must  tell  you  what  has 
been  in  my  mind.  You  will  not  refuse,  dear 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


135 


Miss  Devereux?  Gregory,  help  me  persuade 
her — an  old  friend  of  yours.  I  know  you  want 
ed  me  to  ask  her.  Oh,  what  a  muddle  I  am 
making  of  the  matter!"  with  another  troubled 
laugh.  ' '  I  want  you  to  help  me,  Helen — to  be 
one  of  my  brides  -  maids ;  now,  don't  refuse. 
Gregory,  don't  let  her." 

"I  fear  that  if  your  persuasions  do  not  avail, 
mine  would  have  little  effect,"  said  Alleyne,  with 
an  effort. 

"But  you  must  coax  her,  too;  you  have 
known  her  the  longest." 

Then  Miss  Devereux  spoke.  There  was  a 
buzzing  in  her  ears,  anger  and  mortification  in 
her  heart.  She  knew  the  request  was  a  fresh 
bit  of  spite  on  Fanny's  part,  but  she  could  not 
refuse.  If  she  herself,  or  this  heartless  girl,  were 
to  believe  she  was  afraid ! 

"To  be  brides-maid?"  she  said,  with  perfect 
ease,  as  if  the  demand  were  too  indifferent  and 
natural  to  need  a  thought.  "Certainly,  Miss 
St.  Simon,  I  shall  be  charmed — only  do  have  the 
livery  white  and  blue.  My  complexion  won't 
stand  pink,  and  one  could  not  consent  to  wear 
an  unbecoming  color  even  in  such  a  cause." 

"White  and  blue,  of  course!"  cried  Fanny. 
"How  nice  of  you  to  say  yes!  I  am  so  grate 
ful  !  Thank  her ;  do  thank  her,  Gregory." 

He  was  annoyed  with  her,  with  Helen,  with 
every  body  and  every  thing,  but  he  could  not  ap 
pear  like  a  fool  without  some  attempt  to  prevent  it. 

"I  think  your  face  is  doing  it  better  than  any 
words  of  mine  possibly  could,"  he  answered, 
and  felt  that  he  had  not  done  badly. 

"Thank  me  for  having  procured  you  a  pretty 
compliment,  Miss  St.  Simon,"  said  Helen  Dever 
eux. 

"Yes;  he  says  he  never  pays  compliments, 
but  he  manages  to  say  very  nice  things;  you 
have  known  him  long  enough  to  discover  that," 
Fanny  replied. 

The  Tortoise  had  gone  into  a  momentary  doze, 
and  came  forth  from  it  with  a  jump,  her  senses 
more  obscured  than  ever. 

"I  can't  make  out  what  you  all  mean,"  she 
whined,  trying  to  quicken  her  wits  by  inhaling  a 
pinch  of  snuff'  behind  her  handkerchief.  "  Fan 
ny,  what  is  Mr.  Alleyne  saying  to  Helen  Dever 
eux?"  (He  had  said  nothing.)  "He  can't 
marry  you  both,  you  know." 

That  gentleman's  cheeks  rivaled  Miss  Dever- 
eux's  in  color,  and  hers  had  grown  too  deep  a 
damask  to  be  becoming.  But  it  was  impossible 
to  avoid  joining  in  Fanny's  burst  of  childish 
laughter ;  they  were  forced  to  do  it,  and,  besides, 
the  predicament  was  so  absurd  that  tragedy 
heroes  must  have  laughed. 

"  I  can't  see  what  you  are  all  laughing  at," 
pursued  the  Tortoise,  in  a  voice  of  mild  com 
plaint.  "I've  been  asleep,  and  I  haven't  had 
my  afternoon  cup  of  tea,  and  I  can't  understand 
things." 


"Miss  Devereux  was  consenting  to  be  my 
chief  brides-maid,"  Fanny  explained.  "Is  it 
not  nice  of  her  ?" 

"To  be  what?"  demanded  the  Tortoise,  not 
wide  enough  awake  to  comprehend  even  so  clear 
a  statement. 

"  My  brides-maid,  T." 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  would  come  from  the  con 
fectioners.  Or  you  didn't  say  cake?  Oh  no! 
I  begin  to  understand ;"  and  the  Tortoise  looked 
slightly  relieved.  "  If  I  only  had  my  tea." 

"  I  must  run  away  now,"  said  Miss  Devereux, 
rising,  "  and  Mrs.  St.  Simon  can  have  both  tea 
and  explanation." 

"You'd  better  stop  and  have  a  cup;  it's  very 
good,"  observed  the  Tortoise,  in  a  burst  of  gen 
erosity. 

Miss  Devereux  would  have  no  tea,  but  now 
the  Tortoise  had  so  many  fresh  questions  to  ask 
that  getting  away  was  a  difficult  matter,  and  as 
they  were  troublesome  queries  Fanny  did  not  aid 
the  visitor. 

"Didn't  I  get  it  mixed  up?"  cried  the  Tor 
toise.  "You  see,  I  had  been  dozing — was  it 
rude?  St.  Simon  says  it  is.  And  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  marry  Mr.  Alleyne  and  Fanny, 
didn't  I?  No — how  was  it?  Did  I  dream  he 
didn't  wish  to  marry  either  of  you  ?" 

"  Either  way  will  answer,  T.,  since  it  was  only 
a  dream,"  said  Fanny,  laughing  as  if  it  were  the 
best  joke  in  the  world. 

"  But  it  couldn't  be,  could  it  ?  And  he  prom 
ised — didn't  you  promise,  Mr.  Alleyne  ?" 

For  the  first  time  Alleyne  wondered  that  St. 
Simon  had  never  smothered  the  poor  soul. 
Miss  Devereux  tried  to  act  as  if  she  thought  it 
all  as  amusing  as  Fanny  appeared  to,  and  en 
deavored  to  get  away,  but  the  Tortoise  held  her 
dress. 

"Did  you  say  you  were  going  to  be  married 
too,  Helen  ?" 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of,  dear  madam." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  have  said  something — 
mustn't  she,  Mr.  Alleyne  ?  I  couldn't  have  got 
every  thing  all  wrong,  without  somebody's  saying 
something  to  set  me  off;  now,  could  I?" 

"I  will  try  to  talk  more  clearly  when  I  come 
to  see  you  in  Paris,"  Miss  Devereux  said,  feeling 
it  necessary  to  speak. 

"Are  you  coming ?  Didn't  you  and  St.  Simon 
quarrel  ?  I  know  I  thought  you  didn't  like  some 
one ;  was  it  Mr.  Alleyne  ?" 

"My  dear  T. !"  cried  Fanny,  "Miss  Dever- 
enx  and  Mr.  Alleyne  are  very  old  friends :  don't 
suggest  such  dreadful  things." 

"  How  could  I  have  thought  she  quarreled 
if  she  didn't?"  crooned  the  Tortoise,  with  a 
slow,  irritating  obstinacy  she  sometimes  display 
ed  when  roused  suddenly  from  a  nap.  "Why 
won't  any  of  you  explain  any  thing  to  me  ?" 

"But  there's  nothing  to  explain,  T." 

"Now,  Fanny;    didn't  you  begin?     Didn't 


136 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


you  say  Helen  was  going  to  furnish  your  cake 
or  something  ?" 

She  appeared  on  the  point  of  falling  asleep 
again,  but  she  still  held  Miss  Devereux  fast. 

"I  really  must  say  good -morning,  Mrs.  St. 
Simon,"  said  Helen. 

"Why  must  you?"  demanded  the  Tortoise, 
waxing  more  and  more  argumentative. 

"Because  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do  to-day. 
I  shall  come  to  see  you  when  you  get  to  Paris." 
"Every  body  is  always  doing  something," 
sighed  the  Tortoise.  "You're  as  bad  as  St.  Si 
mon—and  what's  he  so  busy  about  ?  I  wonder 
if  I  dreamed  that  he — " 

"T.,  T.,  you  are  detaining  Miss  Devereux," 
broke  in  Fanny,  deeming  it  time  to  check  the 
Tortoise,  since  her  maunderings  approached  a 
dangerous  topic. 

So  Helen  was  permitted  to  say  farewell ;  but 
when  released  from  the  Tortoise — who  sunk  back 
in  her  chair,  and  went  to  sleep  like  a  baby — Fan 
ny  had  to  indulge  in  a  few  more  ecstatics,  and 
added  expressions  of  gratitude. 

"  It  was  so  good  of  you  to  promise ;  I  was  so 
afraid  you  might  not  like  the  idea ! " 

"Oh,  all  young  women  like  playing  the 
brides-maid's  part,"  said  Miss  Devereux. 

"And  we  will  consult  about  the  most  becom 
ing  costume.  I  shall  depend  greatly  on  you, 
Helen ;  your  taste  is  perfect ! " 

"Such  as  it  is,  it  will  be  quite  at  your  serv 
ice,"  replied  Miss  Devereux,  carefully  hiding  her 
annoyance.  She  knew  that  whenever  the  creat 
ure  employed  her  Christian  name  she  meant  to 
be  especially  venomous. 

"Gregory,  you  bad  boy,  you  don't  say  a 
word ! "  cried  Fanny,  desiring  to  give  him  his  full 
share  of  the  penance. 

"When  it  comes  to  a  matter  of  feminine 
attire,  I  am  forced  to  take  refuge  in  silence, "he 
said. 

"  Oh,  you  are  as  near  asleep  as  T. !"  laughed 
Fanny.  "I  meant  you  to  thank  her  again." 

"And  that  you  have  done  better  than  I  could," 
he  answered,  more  nearly  vexed  with  her  than  he 
had  ever  felt. 

"Besides,  it  must  all  be  left  till  we  meet  in 
Paris, "added  Miss  Devereux.  "I  really  must 
go  now." 

"How  I  hate  saying  good-bye — it  is  such  a 
doleful  word!"  sighed  Fanny. 

"We  need  not  say  it  for  so  short  a  time,"  re 
joined  Miss  Devereux. 

"I  shall  expect  you  to  give  yourself  up  to 
me  and  my  affairs  entirely, "  said  Fanny.  ' '  Oh, 
I  shall  be  so  selfish  you  will  hate  me.  And  you 
really  will  go !  Then,  not  good-bye,  but  an  re- 
voif" 

She  had  three  minds  to  kiss  the  departing 
guest,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  wince,  but 
could  not  bring  herself  quite  to  that.  Fair  as 
the  face  was,  Fanny  felt  that  it  would  not  be 


safe  to  attempt  this  last  proof  of  affection.  She 
should  inevitably  bite  her  enemy,  or  claw  her 
ike  a  tiger-cat,  in  the  midst  of  the  embrace. 

Gregoiy  Alleyne  had  to  see  the  visitor  down 
stairs;  there  was  no  help  for  that,  though  just 
at  this  moment  both  could  have  objurgated  eti 
quette  with  great  heartiness. 

"I  shall  come  to  you  the  moment  I  get  to 
Paris, "Fanny  said,  following  to  the  door  of  the 
anteroom.  "I  shall  want  advice  about  all  sorts 
of  things :  you  will  find  your  office  no  sine 
cure." 

Miss  Devereux  replied,  she  hardly  knew  what, 
and  passed  on. 

''Gregory,  you  careless  fellow!  you  are  not 
giving  Miss  Devereux  your  arm,"  called  Fanny. 
Good-bye,  dear  Helen ;  ban  voyage .'" 

The  flight  of  stairs  was  a  long  one — the  long 
est  in  all  Europe  it  seemed  to  those  two  as  they 
descended.  Alleyne  considered  it  necessary  to 
talk,  and,  man-like,  stumbled  on  the  precise  sub 
ject  which  of  all  others  he  would  have  wished  to 
avoid. 

"I  hope  Miss  St.  Simon's  request  does  not 
bore  you  too  much,"  said  he. 

"To  be  brides-maid?  Oh  no;  I  rather  like 
it.  I  have  served  in  that  capacity  several  times," 
returned  Miss  Devereux,  lightly. 

"I  believe  young  ladies  do  enjoy  such  things," 
said  he,  perfectly  conscious  he  was  talking  and 
looking  like  an  idiot,  but  unable  to  do  better  or 
to  keep  silence,  and  it  was  such  a  journey  yet  to 
the  foot  of  the  staircase ;  certainly  they  would 
never  reach  it ! 

"I  enjoy  pleasure  and  amusement  of  all  kinds 
— so  I  fancy  do  most  people, "replied  Miss  Dev 
ereux  ;  and  her  gaze,  too,  wandered  down  the 
descent,  and  it  looked  interminable  in  her  sight 
also.  "So  you  are  g^oing  for  a  tour  through  la 
Normandie  ?" 

"  Yes — just  to  pass  a  week  or  ten  days." 

"Ah,  of  course ;  I  suppose  at  such  a  time  the 
days  do  go  slowly." 

She  was  sorry  the  moment  the  words  were  ut 
tered  ;  they  had  a  sneering  sound,  as  if  his  hap 
piness  had  power  to  move  her  to  anger  or  scorn. 
She  would  rather  have  died  than  let  him  believe 
she  had  feeling  of  any  sort  in  regard  to  him  or 
his  future,  beyond  the  cool  interest  one  gives  a 
person  one  has  known  for  a  long  time. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have  ever  congratulated 
you," she  hastened  to  add ;  "you  must  let  me  do 
so  now." 

He  looked  about  ten  feet  high,  and  as  stately 
as  a  mountain  at  once. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said,  and  knew  the  words 
sounded  as  if  they  were  pumped  out  of  his  boots. 
"You  were  good  enough  to  do  so  when  we  met 
in  Paris  last  winter." 

"Then  you  shall  have  these  in  addition,"  re 
turned  she,  pleasantly.  "I  hope  you  may  be 
very  happy  indeed." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


137 


They  were  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  at  last — 
reached  it  just  as  she  finished  her  sentence. 

"  I  thank  you  again,  and  I  return  your  wish," 
he  said ;  and  now  he  was  painfully  aware  that 
his  voice  sounded  as  if  the  pump  had  grown  un 
equal  and  jerky  in  its  movements. 

No  more  need  of  speech ;  they  were  at  the 
outer  door:  he  helped  her  into  her  carriage, 
where  her  maid  sat  to  play  propriety. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Miss  Devereux ;  "it 
is  good-bye,  too,  for  a  time." 

"Good-bye,"  he  repeated. 

She  did  not  offer  her  hand.  As  he  lifted  his 
hat,  their  eyes  met ;  then  the  carriage  whirled 
away. 

"  How  pale  he  looked!  how  odd  he  looked!" 
was  Miss  Devereux's  thought.  "But  his  looks 
are  nothing  to  me — nothing  whatever.  He  chose 
voluntarily,  and  no  doubt  is  suited  ;  and  I  know 
him  simply  because  he  is  Fanny  St.  Simon's  fut 
ure  husband,  and  fate  for  some  reason  is  always 
bringing  me  near  her.  No,  it  is  nothing  to  me." 

Gregory  Alleyne  did  not  cast  so  much  as  one 
glance  after  the  departing  vehicle.  Mechanic 
ally  he  walked  a  few  steps  down  the  street  in 
the  opposite  direction,  then  remembered  that  he 
must  go  into  the  house  again,  so  turned  back  at 
once. 

"Why,  her  eyes  looked  as  they  used  to  do," 
was  the  thought  in  his  mind.  "  If  she  cared — 
but  how  could  that  be?  I  thought  she  would 
have  been  a  duchess  before  now.  She  must 
have  meant  to  sell  herself  from  ambition ;  there 
was  no  other  reason  for —  But  what  have  I  to 
do  with  her  reasons  or  her  plans  ?  Come,  I 
may  be  a  fool,  but  I  will  not  be  mean  and  cow 
ardly  !  I  am  going  back  to  Fanny,  and  Fanny 
is  my  betrothed  wife." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE     RISING     TIDE. 

AFTER  all,  Miss  Devereux's  departure  did  not 
take  place  the  next  morning,  anxious  as  she 
was  to  be  gone.  Her  maid  seized  the  opportu 
nity  to  be  ill  in  the  night,  and  Helen  was  not 
the  sort  of  woman  who  could  go  serenely  on  her 
way,  and  leave  the  poor  creature  to  fight  out  her 
troubles  in  solitude,  with  permission  to  follow  in 
case  her  illness  did  not  continue  long  enough  to 
inconvenience  her  mistress. 

The  girl  suffered  great  pain  the  whole  night, 
and  Miss  Devereux  spent  the  greater  part  of  it 
at  her  bedside,  to  be  certain  that  the  remedies 
ordered  by  the  physician  whom  she  had  sum 
moned  were  properly  employed.  When  morn 
ing  came  Clemence  was  better,  but  the  doctor 
said  she  must  remain  quiet  for  another  twenty- 
four  hours ;  exertion  might  bring  on  a  renewal 
of  the  attack. 


Clemence  was  so  faithful  and  devoted  that  she 
was  like  a  relic  of  that  exploded  race  of  domes 
tics  of  whom  our  elders  talk  so  much,  but  speci 
mens  of  which  so  few  of  us  ever  saw.  Miss 
Devereux  caught  herself  wondering  why  it  is 
that  the  people  so  deeply  attached  to  one  are  al 
ways  doing  something  inconsiderate  or  ill-timed. 
Then  she  felt  ashamed  of  her  cynicism,  and  won 
dered  if  she  were  reaJly  growing  captious  and  bad- 
tempered.  Of  late  she  had  found  so  many  occa 
sions  to  be  shocked  at  her  own  harsh  thoughts 
and  unregenerate  impulses,  that  she  began  to 
fear  she  was  by  nature  a  far  more  wicked  wom 
an  than  she  had  known. 

She  had  no  desire  to  let  any  of  her  friends  or 
acquaintance  learn  that  she  had  delayed  her  de 
parture,  and  so  spent  most  of  the  day  in  the 
house.  Late  in  the  afternoon  she  recollected 
that  Fanny  and  Alleyne  were  to  have  gone  off 
early  on  some  excursion  with  Roland  Spencer, 
from  which  they  would  not  return  till  evening. 
As  soon  as  she  remembered  this,  it  occurred  to 
her  that  she  needed  a  walk  ;  though,  with  that 
habit  so  common  to  humanity  of  keeping  up  dec 
orous  appearances  with  one's  soul  as  one  would 
with  a  stranger  (to  a  good  many  of  us,  indeed,  I 
think  that  unquiet  possession  remains  a  myste 
rious  unknown  from  first  to  last),  she  did  not 
admit  that  it  had  been  the  dislike  of  again  meet 
ing  Fanny  and  her  lover  which  kept  her  indoors. 

Fanny's  lover!  The  words  always  sounded 
odd  and  unnatural  in  Helen  Devereux's  ears,  as 
she  remembered  who  the  man  was.  Then  she 
never  failed  to  ask  herself  sternly  why  they 
should,  and  to  assure  her  soul  that  she  consider 
ed  the  pair  very  well  suited  to  each  other ;  that, 
in  fact,  neither  of  them  was  any  thing  to  her, 
and  she  could  not  see  why  fate  was  so  fond, 
wherever  she  turned,  of  bringing  her  face  to  face 
with  them.  She  went  through  the  little  round 
of  questions  and  answers  now,  vexed  for  so  do 
ing;  then  began  to  prepare  for  her  walk  in  as 
great  haste  as  if  she  must  keep  some  important 
engagement.  She  would  have  liked  to  shake 
herself  had  that  gymnastic  feat  been  possible. 
It  was  a  little  relief  to  shake  her  hat  till  the 
feather  threatened  to  fly  off,  and  then  to  laugh 
at  her  own  folly.  The  wisest  and  most  self-re 
strained  of  us  have  done  just  such  silly  things, 
each  in  our  turn,  when  physical  weariness  added 
to  mental  disquietude  has  made  us  feel  more 
childish  than  usual. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  soft  and  golden; 
so  warm,  too,  that  it  seemed  as  if  summer  had 
forgotten  something  on  earth  and  come  back  to 
look  for  it.  Helen  had  no  mind  to  go  down  to 
the  place,  where  she  would  encounter  crowds  of 
her  own  species.  She  walked  through  the  vil 
lage,  and  came  out  upon  the  shore  just  beyond  a 
jutting  point  which  formed  the  limit  of  the  ordi 
nary  promenade.  The  waters  lapped  the  sands 
in  play ;  off  in  the  distance  a  few  sails  floated 


138 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


like  silver  banners ;  sea  and  sky  so  clear  that  it 
was  difficult  to  tell  where  one  began  and  the  oth 
er  ended. 

A  perfect  day ;  so  serene  and  bright  that  Hel 
en  felt  more  than  ever  ashamed  of  her  own  un 
rest  and  fretfulness.  It  seemed  a  positive  sin  to 
bring  such  petty,  miserable  thoughts  out  into  the 
glory  of  the  sunshine.  She  was  certain  that  this 
unusual  state  of  mind  arose  from  bodily  fatigue 
consequent  upon  her  sleepless  night.  A  good 
stiff  march  would  restore  her  to  a  less  heathenish 
mood ;  so  away  she  rushed  along  the  beach,  try 
ing  to  occupy  her  mind  with  the  beautiful  scene 
spread  before  her,  and  so  obtain  that  comfort 
and  support  which  Nature  is  ever  ready  to  give 
us,  if  only  we  can  check  the  hurry  and  confusion 
of  our  souls  sufficiently  to  watch  her  loveliness 
and  listen  to  her  voice. 

She  reached  a  deep  bay,  whose  curving  sands 
shone  like  a  silver  cup  set  to  hold  the  rainbow- 
tinted  waters.  Farther  back  the  shore  became 
rugged  and  precipitous,  in  one  spot  broken  to 
give  room  for  a  little  patch  of  garden,  on  whose 
edge  stood  a  fisherman's  hut.  Miss  Devereux 
knew  the  place;  she  had  made  acquaintance 
with  old  Babette,  the  fisherman's  mother,  the 
quaintest,  most  original  ancient  body  imaginable, 
who  delighted  in  the  beautiful  lady's  visits.  She 
knew  little  Jean,  too,  the  widowed  fisherman's 
son,  a  bright,  handsome  lad  of  thirteen,  who  had 
taught  her  to  row,  and  was  so  fervent  an  admirer 
of  hers  that  he  had  several  times  confided  to  his 
grandmother  a  private  belief  that  the  lady  was 
no  less  a  personage  than  the  Virgin  disguised  in 
a  modern  walking  -  dress.  Babette  was  afraid 
that  this  extreme  idea  might  be  sinful ;  so,  after 
hearing  Miss  Devereux  sing  one  day,  they  united 
upon  a  theory  that  she  must  at  least  be  St.  Ce 
cilia,  and  were  so  happy  in  their  credence  that  I, 
for  one,  would  not  have  disturbed  it  for  the  world. 

When  Miss  Devereux  first  visited  the  cabin 
old  Babette  was  getting  up  from  a  serious  illness ; 
Antoine's  boat  had  been  stolen,  and  ruin  men 
aced  the  two.  So,  having  taken  pains  to  learn 
that  they  were  honest,  hard-working,  and  thor 
oughly  deserving,  Miss  Devereux  pleased  her 
self  by  helping  them  in  a  more  material  fashion 
than  either  of  the  saintly  persons  to  whom  they 
compared  her  might  have  been  able  to  do. 

But  to-day  the  cabin  was  deserted ;  it  chanced 
to  be  the  festival  of  some  one  of  St.  Cecilia's 
brethren  or  sisters,  and  Babette  and  her  son  had 
given  themselves  a  holiday,  and  taken  Jean  with 
them. 

However,  the  light  boat,  arranged  to  use  a 
sprit-sail  if  required  —  by  the  presentation  of 
which  Miss  Devereux  had  crowned  Jean's  thir 
teenth  birthday  with  glory  and  happiness  —  lay 
partially  pulled  up  on  the  sands,  securely  fasten 
ed  to  a  stake  by  a  chain  and  padlock,  to  prevent 
its  capture  by  marauding  boys  or  unscrupulou 
passers-by  of  a  larger  growth.  Helen  made  hei 


way  into  the  house,  and  found  the  key  in  a 
drawer  where  it  was  always  kept,  and  the  oars 
in  a  corner. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  push  the  little  craft  into 
the  water;  and  Miss  Devereux  had  learned  to 
manage  the  oars  very  neatly.  The  tide  was  out, 
the  bay  smooth  as  glass ;  and  Helen  so  thorough 
ly  enjoyed  the  exercise  that  she  was  even  able  to 
forget  she  had  her  troublesome  soul  for  a  pas 
senger. 

She  rowed  quite  out  to  sea,  and  came  back. 
A  short  distance  within  the  entrance  to  the  bay 
rose  a  shelf  of  rock,  which  at  higli  tide  was 
sometimes  quite  covered.  In  the  centre  there 
had  probably  some  time  been  a  sharp  peak,  but 
the  waves  had  broken  and  crumbled  this  away, 
till  now  it  looked  more  like  a  rough  stone  chair 
than  any  thing  else,  raised  like  a  throne,  with 
the  flat  ledge  for  a  footstool. 

Miss  Devereux  landed  thei'e,  secured  the  boat's 
chain  about  a  heavy  stone,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  shelf.  Strange  sea-weeds  grew  in  the 
crevices  of  the  rocks,  green  and  gray  lichens  spot 
ted  them,  odd  shells  had  lodged  themselves  in 
friendly  niches,  and  mysterious,  tiny  creatures — 
to  see  which  one  almost  needed  the  aid  of  a  mi 
croscope — darted  in  and  out  among  the  weeds, 
as  busy  and  self-important  as  if  convinced  this 
platform  were  the  world  entire,  and  they  the 
despotic  rulers  thereof.  Here  and  there  were 
little  hollows  filled  with  water,  in  which  minia 
ture  fish  with  heads  much  larger  than  their  bodies 
skimmed  about ;  and  they,  too,  were  as  active  as 
if  their  pools  had  been  an  ocean,  and  they  whales, 
if  not  leviathans.  Troops  of  gay-winged  insects 
circled  to  and  fro,  like  flecks  of  emerald  and 
gold  ;  a  gorgeous  purple  butterfly,  that  had  come 
in  the  boat  with  Helen,  and  landed  at  the  same 
time,  floated  up  to  the  throne  and  settled  there 
on,  as  if  she  had  been  a  fairy  queen  assuming 
her  rightful  seat.  A  sea-eagle  was  poised  away 
off  in  mid-air,  motionless  as  a  shadow ;  a  flock 
of  wild  ducks  shot  past,  chattering  as  they  flew. 
Every  living  object  in  sight  appeared  full  of  ex 
citement,  pleasant  excitement  at  that.  The  sea 
laughed  and  sung,  the  sky  spread  out  radiant  and 
bright,  and  Nature  seemed  to  cry,  with  all  her 
thousand  voices  at  once,  that  existence  and  hap 
piness  were  meant  to  be  synonymous  terms,  and 
would  have  remained  so  bad  not  man  been  utter 
ly  deaf  and  blind. 

Except  in  those  little  basins,  the  sun  had  left 
the  rock  dry  and  shining.  Miss  Devereux  walk 
ed  about,  noticed  every  thing  down  to  the  tini 
est  insect  or  lichen,  and  tried  diligently  to  forget 
that  eternal  consciousness  of  self  which  haunts  us 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

At  length,  feeling  a  wholesome  sense  of  fatigue, 
entirely  unlike  the  restless  weariness  which  had 
beset  her  when  she  left  the  house,  she  mounted 
to  the  throne ;  the  fairy  queen,  in  the  guise  of  a 
butterfly,  fluttered  up  to  give  her  welcome,  and 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


139 


graciously  relinquished  the  chair  in  her  favor; 
and,  after  Helen  had  sat  down,  swam  in  airy  cir 
cles  about  her  head,  now  and  then  pausing  quite 
close,  as  if  she  would  like  to  converse,  had  the 
honored  human  only  been  fortunate  enough  to 
speak  her  language. 

But,  alas !  mortal  nature  is  so  poor  a  thing  (the 
trite  old  words  strike  me  with  a  melancholy  sig 
nificance  as  I  repeat  them)  that,  before  she  knew 
it,  Miss  Devereux  was  worlds  away  from  any 
consciousness  of  the  charming  scene  wherewith 
she  had  just  thought  herself  delighted,  lost  in 
the  troubled  realm  of  her  own  reflections. 

How  long  she  sat  there,  whither  her  thoughts 
had  wandered  during  the  interval,  I  think  she 
never  could  have  told.  But  when  she  did  rouse 
herself,  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  was  brighten 
ing  sea  and  sky.  The  butterfly  had  drifted  back 
to  land,  the  eagle  and  the  wild  sea-birds  had  dis 
appeared.  The  wind  had  risen  suddenly,  and 
was  surging  in  from  the  ocean  with  an  angry 
moan ;  the  tide  had  come  up ;  the  great  foam- 
crested  waves  were  dashing  to  shore  ;  the  water 
had  swept  over  the  outer  edges  of  the  shelf  of 
rock,  and  each  succeeding  surge  leaped  higher 
across  its  level. 

She  must  get  back  to  the  beach ;  fortunately 
the  wind  and  tide  were  in  her  favor,  so  that  the 
task  would  not  be  difficult.  She  descended  from 
the  chair,  crossed  the  first  broken  ledge,  and  dis 
covered  that  she  must  step  in  the  water  in  order 
to  reach  the  boat.  She  looked  down  at  the  spot 
where  she  had  secured  the  bark ;  it  was  no  long 
er  there ;  the  force  of  the  tide  had  loosened  the 
chain.  She  glanced  toward  the  shore,  and  saw 
the  boat  dancing  gayly  over  the  heaving  surge. 

A  fresh  dash  of  foam  leaped  higher  across  the 
rocks,  drenching  her  garments.  A  new  blast  of 
wind  rushed  past  with  a  dreary  sob ;  the  voice 
of  the  ocean  replied  with  something  menacing  in 
its  tone. 

She  turned  and  ran  back  to  the  seat ;  the 
waves  had  almost  reached  the  cliff  where  her 
feet  had  been  resting  a  little  time  before.  Helen 
sat  down  again,  and  looked  about ;  the  glowing 
colors  of  the  sunset  deepened  each  instant ; 
great  masses  of  yellow  and  red  clouds  jutted  out 
from  the  horizon,  casting  their  brilliant  reflec 
tions  even  over  the  pale  blue  of  the  zenith  ;  but 
below,  away  down  close  to  the  sea-line,  stretched 
a  band  of  black  mist,  which  told  of  stormy  weath 
er  off  in  mid-ocean.  For  a  few  moments  Helen 
did  not  realize  that  she  was  in  danger ;  it  was  not 
till  she  chanced  to  catch  sight  of  the  fisherman's 
cot,  looking  so  peaceful  and  still,  that  she  remem 
bered  it  was  empty,  and  she  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  any  human  aid. 

On  tore  the  wind  again ;  up  boomed  the 
yeasty  waves,  tinted  with  the  coloring  of  the 
clouds,  and  dashed  close  to  the  foot  of  the  throne. 
She  was  fully  alive  to  her  peril  now;  she  might 
be  drowned ;  or  if  she  escaped  that  by  standing 


on  the  seat,  always  supposing  the  tide  did  not 
wash  her  off,  she  ran  the  risk  of  a  worse,  because 
lingering,  death,  from  the  effects  of  chill  and  ex 
posure. 

For  a  brief  space  she  was  horribly  frightened, 
conscious  of  nothing  only  a  physical  shrinking 
from  pain  and  death.  That  feeling  paised ;  she 
could  think,  she  could  pray;  could  remember 
that  if  her  faith  were  not  sufficient  to  cover  the 
dread  of  this  crisis,  it  was  worth  nothing.  If  she 
could  not  trust  God  now,  then  the  confidence  of 
her  whole  life  had  been  a  delusion  and  an  unwit 
ting  pretense. 

A  strange  calm  succeeded  the  horror  and  be 
wilderment  :  she  gazed  down  at  the  sea  and  up 
at  the  sky ;  and  afterward  could  recollect  that 
she  was  thinking  how  strange  it  seemed  that  per 
haps  in  a  few  moments  she  would  be  beyond  the 
stars.  Every  memory  of  her  past  life  seemed 
to  rush  back,  as  is  said  to  be  the  case  with  per 
sons  actually  drowning.  She  could  recollect  no 
willful  injury  done  to  any  human  being;  her 
conscience  did  not  cry  out  over  any  palpable 
means  of  doing  good  left  unimproved.  Hard 
ness,  lack  of  faith  in  her  kind,  a  weariness  and 
impatience  of  existence  often — these  memories 
rose  to  haunt  her ;  but  she  remembered  that  in 
her  blackest  hours  she  had  never  ceased  to  trust 
God  here — she  could  trust  him  hereafter. 

The  memory  of  her  wasted  love  came  back  too ; 
her  whole  soul  went  up  in  a  quick  prayer  for  a 
blessing  on  the  man  she  had  loved — a  petition 
that  in  whatsoever  he  had  erred  he  might  be  par 
doned,  even  as  she  hoped  that  her  sins  might  be 
absolved. 

The  sunset  hues  flashed  out  with  stormy  mag 
nificence,  and  suddenly  began  to  fade.  Helen 
could  notice  this,  even  amidst  the  preoccupation 
of  her  thoughts.  A  few  hours  before,  when 
there  had  been  no  special  reason  for  self-absorp 
tion,  she  had  found  it  difficult  to  get  her  mind 
away  from  personal  matters ;  now,  whether  she 
prayed  or  gazed  back  over  the  narrowing  vista  of 
her  life,  not  a  sight  or  sound  escaped  her — noth 
ing  so  trivial  that  she  could  not  give  the  minutest 
detail  when  she  recalled  this  time. 

She  saw  the  little  boat  dancing  gnyly  over  the 
waves;  one  instant  flung  in  toward  shore,  the 
next  carried  out  by  the  under-tow ;  then  her  eyes 
wandered  on  to  the  beach.  And  she  could  per 
ceive  a  figure  standing  on  the  sands — a  woman  ; 
another  glance,  and  she  recognized  Fanny  St. 
Simon. 

It  chanced  that  Fanny  had  been  in  one  of  her 
bad  moods  this  day.  At  the  last  moment  she 
had  refused  to  accompany  Alleyne  and  Spencer 
on  the  proposed  expedition,  and,  as  a  crowning 
wickedness,  had  forced  them  to  take  the  Tor 
toise  and  two  tiresome  young  ladies,  who  did  not 
possess  half  an  idea  between  them. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  grew  sick  of  herself, 
tired  of  shaking  her  clenched  hands  (metaphor- 


140 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


ically)  in  the  face  of  destiny,  and  so  went  out  to 
walk.  She  stopped  for  an  instant  at  the  hotel 
where  Miss  Devereux  lodged  to  inquire  after  an 
invalid  acquaintance,  and  learned  that  Helen  had 
not  gone  as  she  intended.  But  Fanny  had  no 
desire  to  see  her;  she  felt  that  in  her  present 
frame  of  mind  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to 
keep  the  peace ;  so  she  hurried  away  from  the 
house  for  fear  of  meeting  her  enemy — it  was  a 
relief  just  now  to  call  her  so— her  enemy !  The 
woman  who  had  come  between  her  and  the  one 
love  of  her  life — who  had  taken  Talbot,  and  then 
given  him  to  her  friend,  that  baby-faced  Marian ! 
It  was  not  Marian  she  blamed  or  hated  ;  she 
wondered  sometimes  thereat ;  she  called  her  a 
pretty  child,  and  had  no  sentiment  beyond  a  half- 
scornful  pity  where  she  was  concerned.  Helen 
Devereux  had  done  the  whole;  she  had  been 
the  cause  of  all  the  suffering  from  first  to  last. 

Bitter,  black  thoughts  were  those  which  filled 
Fanny's  mind  as  she  walked  along.  She  was  not 
greatly  given  to  long  rumbles  for  the  mere  sake 
of  exercise,  but  just  now  she  was  in  no  mood  to 
go  back  to  the  house  and  sit  idle  ;  the  experiment 
would  be  positively  dangerous.  If  she  remained 
shut  in  her  room  till  the  unwilling  pleasure-seek 
ers  returned  (even  in  the  midst  of  her  wrath  and 
pain  Fanny  could  not  help  laughing  as  she  recall 
ed  the  rueful  expression  on  the  two  men's  faces 
when  she  announced  her  intention  of  not  going, 
and  coolly  laid  the  Tortoise  and  the  idiot  sisters 
on  their  shoulders),  she  would  be  incapable  of 
controlling  herself,  and  infallibly  treat  Alleyne  to 
a  scene  which  might  end  in  her  breaking  the  en 
gagement.  She  must  not  go  mad  enough  for 
such  folly ;  St.  Simon  would  certainly  find  means 
to  confine  her  in  a  lunatic  asylum  if  she  did,  and 
Fanny  acknowledged  that  he  would  be  quite 
right  in  so  doing. 

On  she  went  by  the  very  path  Miss  Devereux 
had  taken  a  couple  of  hours  before.  Sometimes 
she  fairly  ran — there  was  a  relief  in  the  rapid 
movement ;  she  must  in  some  way  work  off  the 
absurd  excitement  which  had  burned  all  day  like 
a  fever  in  her  veins.  At  length  she  had  to  stop 
to  rest ;  she  had  raced  along  till  she  was  breath 
less.  After  a  short  repose  she  resumed  her 
march,  forgetful  that  it  was  growing  late,  and 
that  if  she  went  much  farther  the  darkness  would 
overtake  her  before  she  reached  home. 

So  she  came  out  upon  the  bay  as  the  sun  was 
setting.  She  went  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
stood  looking,  not  at  the  gorgeous  colors  in  the 
sky,  but  at  the  swift  rushing  tide,  as  it  foameci 
up  on  the  beach  with  outcries  like  those  of  some 
sentient,  creature.  The  hurry  and  noise  of  the 
waves  was  pleasant  to  her,  they  seemed  so  thor 
oughly  alive,  animated  by  so  savage  a  desire  to 
work  havoc  and  ruin  to  something,  to  find  a  sat 
isfaction  in  clashing  themselves  madly  on  the 
beach,  since  there  was  no  other  object  to  hurt. 
She  would  have  liked  to  spring  into  the  foamin 


surge — to  dare  some  great  danger— do  any  thing 
)reposterous  or  insane. 

Then  she  saw  the  little  boat  whirling  and 
dancing  into  shore,  each  sweep  of  the  tide  bring- 
ng  it  nearer  to  where  she  stood.  Her  eyes  wan 
dered  farther  on.  She  saw  Helen  Devereux  on 
the  summit  of  the  rock. 

The  girl  had  mounted  into  the  rocky  chair ;  the 
waves  were  dashing  up,  up ;  Fanny  could  see 
that  they  had  already  reached  her  feet,  that  a 
terrible  death  menaced  her. 

She  started  instinctively  forward,  remembering 
only  that  she  was  watching  a  human  being  in 
danger,  beset  only  by  a  wild  desire  to  aid.  Sud 
denly  she  checked  herself ;  stood  still. 

"Let  her  die!"  she  cried.  "Let  her  die!rl 
The  boat  swept  nearer.  Even  as  Fanny  ut 
tered  the  mad  words  she  started  forward  again 
into  the  water  ;  a  wave  almost  threw  her  off  her 
feet,  but  even  if  she  could  have  reflected  she 
would  have  experienced  no  fear,  for  scarcely  a 
fisherman  on  the  coast  was  a  better  swimmer 
than  she.  But  she  did  not  think  at  all;  she 
knew  that  she  was  trying  to  seize  the  boat,  noth 
ing  more. 

Another  rush  of  the  waves — a  dash  of  spray 
which  wet  her  to  the  skin,  and  half  blinded  her 
for  the  second  ;  but  she  had  caught  the  boat  by 
the  bow,  she  had  sprung  into  it,  and  seized  the 
oars. 

"Let  her  die!"  she  shrieked  again.  "Let 
her  die!" 

But  with  all  her  might  and  main,  with  a 
strength  which  seemed  lent  by  some  invisible 
power,  she  tugged  at  the  oars ;  and,  once  under 
headway,  the  boat  made  fair  progress,  in  spite 
of  the  force  of  the  waves  against  which  she  had 
to  contend. 

In  the  days  when  the  frantic  pleasure-seekers 
of  the  Second  Empire  were  always  rushing  about 
in  search  of  some  uutre  excitement,  Fanny  had 
won  many  a  rowing-match,  and  her  skill  stood 
her  in  good  stead  now.  Even  while  she  kept 
the  boat  headed  so  as  to  avoid  the  full  force  of 
the  tide,  and  sent  it  leaping  so  rapidly  along  that 
sometimes  the  gunwale  was  almost  under  water, 
she  was  watching  that  figure  standing  motionless 
on  the  rock. 

Higher  and  higher  rose  the  waves ;  once  a 
cloud  of  spray  shut  the  form  from  her  sight. 
Fanny  closed  her  eyes  for  a  second,  almost  ex 
pecting,  when  she  opened  them,  to  find  the  rock 
bare — to  know  that  the  woman  had  been  swept 
from  her  place.  But  she  saw  her  still ;  and 
again  Fanny  cried, 

"Let  her  die!"  and  in  the  same  breath  add 
ed, "  Let  her  live ;  she  will  suffer  more.  Let  her 
live!" 

She  laughed  outright  at  her  own  insanity. 
With  one  side  of  her  mind  she  seemed  oppressed 
by  an  awful  hurry  and  excitement ;  with  the 
other  she  could  reflect,  analyze,  anatomize  her 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


141 


feelings  in  the  cool  way  she  was  fond  of  doing. 
Was  she  trying  to  save  Helen  Devereux  because 
her  wickedness  went  no  deeper,  after  all,  than 
words,  and  she  was  incapable  of  allowing  her 
enemy  to  perish,  even  though  she  risked  her  own 
life  in  the  effort  ?  Was  it  because,  as  she  had 
just  cried  out,  Helen  Devereux  would  have  to 
walk  hand  in  hand  with  pain  so  long  as  this  mor 
tal  existence  should  endure  ? 

"That  is  it!"  exclaimed  Fanny.  "I  know 
that  is  it.  I  am  not  trying  to  save  her  because 
I  am  good  or  humane ;  I  know  I  am  not !" 

Miss  Devereux  saw  the  boat  approaching;  it 
was  near  enough  now,  so  that  she  could  distinct 
ly  catch  every  expression  of  its  occupant's  feat 
ures.  Fanny's  hat  had  fallen  off;  some  curls 
of  her  hair  had  loosened  and  were  floating  about 
her  face ;  her  great  eyes  were  dilated  and  black 
with  exertion  and  excitement. 

She  was  saved !  Even  as  Helen  Devereux  mur 
mured  the  words,  there  came  another  thought. 
Saved  by  Fanny  St.  Simon  !  She  felt  for  an  in 
stant  as  though  she  would  rather  die  than  owe 
her  life  to  this  girl,  in  whom  she  instinctively 
recognized  an  implacable  foe.  The  impulse  was 
strong  upon  her  to  turn  her  back,  to  refuse  to 
see  or  hear,  to  let  the  next  rush  of  water  suck 
her  down  —  down.  Life  seemed  too  dearly 
•bought  at  such  a  price  —  saved  by  Fanny  St. 
Simon! 

Then  she  realized  her  own  wickedness;  she 
was  contemplating  suicide  —  that  was  what  it 
would  be— suicide !  And  she  had  believed  her 
self  a  religious  woman — had  all  her  days  thought 
that  her  belief  in  the  Bible  was  entire,  her  faith 
in  God  boundless !  Never  had  this  woman  com 
ing  to  rescue  her  been  guilty  of  a  sin  so  black, 
and  yet  she  had  dared  to  condemn  Fanny !  To 
condemn  her — to  believe  her  hard,  false,  unscru 
pulous  ;  yet  she  knew  nothing  in  reality  against 
her.  She  had  only  her  intuitions  and  her  harsh 
judgments  to  build  upon ;  perhaps  in  thinking 
evil  of  the  girl  she  had  committed  a  greater 
crime  than  in  feeling  that  she  would  rather  die 
than  let  Fanny  save  her. 

"  My  God,  forgive  me !"  she  cried,  horrified  at 
herself. 

The  boat  was  so  close  now  that  Fanny  caught 
the  sound,  though  she  could  not  distinguish  the 
words. 

"  You  were  frightened !"  she  shrieked.  "  You 
were  afraid  to  die!" 

She  uttered  the  words  before  she  was  aware. 
The  roar  of  the  waters  drowned  her  voice,  and 
Fanny  got  her  reason  back.  Very  dexterously 
she  manoeuvred  her  bark  to  the  edge  of  the 
rock.  By  this  time  Miss  Devereux  had  de 
scended. 

"  Jump !"  cried  Fanny. 

Helen  sprung  into  the  boat ;  it  lurched  dread 
fully  under  her  unguarded  leap,  but  Fanny  push 
ed  off. 


"  Give  me  the  oars,"  said  Helen. 

"I  will  not!"  exclaimed  Fanny.  "I'll  do  it 
all  myself." 

Helen  sunk  down,  weak  and  faint  after  her 
excitement.  The  task  of  getting  back  to  shore 
was  easy  enough ;  the  tide  aided  Fanny's  efforts. 

The  two  girls  sat  staring  full  in  each  other's 
face.  Each  read  strange  thoughts  in  the  eyes 
of  the  other ;  but  no  word  was  spoken. 

They  reached  the  shore.  With  a  last  vigor 
ous  effort  Fanny  sent  the  light  boat  up  on  the 
sands.  Miss  Devereux  sprung  out ;  her  com 
panion  followed.  The  two  sunk  down  on  the 
sands;  neither  had  any  strength  left.  It  was 
momenta  before  they  could  move.  Fanny  was 
the  first  to  rise,  to  speak. 

"  We  must  get  home,"  she  said.  "  We  shall 
catch  our  deaths  of  cold,  and  that  would  be  such 
a  prosaic  ending  to  our  adventure." 

She  laughed  as  gayly  as  a  child  ;  her  face  was 
perfectly  calm  now,  her  voice  had  recovered  its 
usual  insouciant  ring. 

Miss  Devereux  moved  toward  her,  and  extend 
ed  her  hand. 

"I  wish  I  could  thank  you,"  she  said;  "I 
wish  I  could.  How  brave  it  was  of  you  !  how 
good!" 

"  Nonsense !"  laughed  Fanny.  "  I've  always 
doted  on  a  rowing- match.  This  time  I  beat 
Neptune  himself  for  an  opponent.  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  for  giving  me  the  chance.'' 

"You  might  so  easily  have  left  me;  scarcely 
a  woman  in  the  world  would  have  thought  of 
trying,"  said  Helen. 

Fanny  pointed  to  the  rock ;  the  summit  was 
scarcely  covered. 

"You  would  have  got  off  with  a  ducking,"  re 
turned  she.  "I  might  have  had  the  feminine 
pleasure  of  seeing  your  dress  ruined,  but  not  of 
being  Nemesis  in  a  tragedy." 

"We  are  both  drenched,"  Miss  Devereux 
said,  shrinking  from  her  tone.  "We  must  get 
home  as  fast  as  we  can." 

"Come,"  said  Fanny,  and  ran  up  the  sands. 

Miss  Devereux  stood  still  for  an  instant,  and 
looked  back  across  the  bay.  The  sun  had  set ; 
the  bright  hues  had  faded ;  the  sky  grown  cold 
and  dark.  The  tide  was  just  reaching  its  height  ; 
it  leaped  and  dashed  with  such  force  over  the 
rock,  as  if  mad  against  this  obstacle,  that  she 
knew  she  must  have  been  washed  from  her  stand 
had  not  Fanny  appeared. 

"Come,  come!"  she  heard  her  companion 
call. 

Miss  Devereux  ran  after  her,  and  the  two 
raced  along  at  the  top  of  their  speed. 

"  I  am  warm  enough,  in  all  conscience,"  Fanny 
said  at  last,  as  she  paused  to  rest.  She  was  hor 
ribly  tired  ;  her  arms  ached  as  if  they  had  been 
wrenched  out  of  the  sockets ;  the  veins  in  her 
hands  were  swollen  and  distended ;  but  she 
would  not  admit  that  she  was  fatigued. 


142 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


Miss  Devereux  wanted  to  thank  her ;  but  she 
knew  Fanny  well  enough  to  be  certain  that  she 
was  in  one  of  her  reckless  states,  and  would  either 
be  vexed,  else  utter  mocking  words,  which  would 
jar  on  her  mind  in  the  softened  mood  of  peni 
tence  and  gratitude  which  had  come  over  her. 

"I  know  what  you  were  thinking,"  said  Fan 
ny,  suddenly,  "when you  hesitated  there  on  the 
rock." 

Miss  Devereux  looked  a  startled,  rather  con 
fused  inquiry;  Fanny's  tone  was  so  odd,  her 
eyes  so  keen,  that  Helen  felt  as  if  the  girl  were 
reading  her  very  soul. 

"  You  were  thinking,"  pursued  Fanny,  "  that 
you  would  almost  rather  be  drowned  than  have 
me  the  person  to  save  you." 

Even  several  seasons  of  worldly  society,  though 
they  had  taught  her  self-control,  had  not  taught 
Miss  Devereux  to  lie.  She  was  positively  fright 
ened  by  Fanny's  intuitions.  She  attempted  no 
denial. 

"If  I  was,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  I  am  ashamed 
of  it." 

"Don't  be,"  returned  Fanny,  gayly;  "it  is 
so  refreshing  to  indulge  now  and  then  in  a  natu 
ral  reflection."  She  paused  to  laugh,  and  added, 
"Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  as  I  came 
up?" 

Helen  remembered  the  strange  look  that  had 
been  in  the  beautiful  eyes  as  she  stepped  into  the 
boat ;  something  of  the  same  wild  passion  swept 
through  their  depths  now,  carelessly  as  she  spoke. 

Miss  Devereux  offered  no  reply. 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  try  to  put  iny- 
self  on  a  pedestal,  when  I  have  just  pulled  you 
off,"  continued  Fanny.  "  I  was  wondering  if 
I  should  enjoy  most  seeing  you  drown  or  live — " 

She  had  to  check  herself;  she  had  been  about 
to  add,  "To  live,  that  I  might  watch  you  suffer." 
She  paused ;  laughed  again,  and  went  on,  "  Sen 
sations  are  so  rare ;  and  I  never  saw  any  body 
drown." 

"  Will  you  let  me  thank  you  for  saving  my 
life  ?"  Helen  asked. 

"Good  heavens !  is  it  a  subject  for  gratitude  ?" 
cried  Fanny,  in  a  voice  of  surprise,  which  would 
have  been  insolent  only  that  it  was  so  deliciously 
childish  and  graceful. 

"  It  ought  to  be,  since  God  gave  the  life,"  Hel 
en  answered.  She  did  not  want  to  appear  mak 
ing  an  attempt  at  piety,  or  to  be  overstrained ; 
but  the  remembrance  of  those  dark  moments 
filled  her  with  penitent  shame. 

"God  gives  us  a  great  many  good  things,  ac 
cording  to  the  orthodox  people,"  returned  Fan 
ny;  "but  I  think,  as  a  rule,  it  is  asking  too 
much  to  ask  one  to  be  grateful — going  to  purga 
tory,  for  example,  either  here  or  hereafter.  The 
discipline  may  be  of  service  to  the  soul ;  but  the 
soul  ought  to  be  allowed  to  wait  till  it  gets  out 
before  it  is  asked  to  be  very  thankful  for  the 
wholesome  pain." 


Miss  Devereux  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to  at 
tempt  a  reproof,  nor  was  this  the  moment  for  it, 
anyway.  She  only  observed,  "We  must  make 
our  way  home;  it  is  getting  dark." 

"And  you  are  shocked  at  my  wickedness,"  re 
turned  Fanny.  "  You  see  I  have  not  just  had  a 
fright." 

No  matter  what  she  said,  or  in  how  pleasant  a 
voice,  there  was  always  an  under-tone  of  sneers 
and  mockery.  Miss  Devereux  could  not  help 
noticing  it ;  and  again  she  wondered,  as  she  had 
so  often  done,  why  Fanny  St.  Simon  regarded 
her  with  such  bitter  hatred,  for  it  was  that ;  the 
word  dislike  or  aversion  was  not  strong  enough. 

Scarcely  another  syllable  passed  between  them 
till  they  reached  the  village.  They  had  run  till 
they  were  thoroughly  warmed,  and  fortunately 
the  darkness  prevented  their  being  seen  and  mis 
taken  for  mermaids  who  had  strayed  away  from 
their  native  element.  The  two  girls  exchanged 
hasty  adieus.  Once  more  Helen  tried  to  express 
her  thanks  ;  but  Fanny  stopped  her. 

"It  is  not  worth  making  a  fuss- over,"  said 
she,  brusquely. 

Somehow  Miss  Devereux  could  not  keep  her 
self  from  thinking  that  Fanny  meant  her  speech 
to  refer  to  the  value  of  the  life  she  had  perhaps 
saved,  not  her  own  action  in  the  matter,  though 
she  was  ashamed  to  think  it. 

"Shall  we  see  you  to-morrow?"  continued 
Fanny. 

"No ;  I  am  really  off  in  the  morning." 

"  Then,  good-bye.  Once  more,  ban  voyage," 
They  shook  hands.  Fanny  added,  gayly,  "Don't 
go  in  search  of  any  more  adventures ;  remember 
that  your  life  belongs  to  Gregory  and  me  till  aft 
er  the  fatal  ceremony  where  you  have  promised 
to  give  us  your  support." 

They  parted.  Helen  hurried  into  the  house. 
A  sudden  chill,  which  did  not  come  from  cold, 
shook  her.  She  registered  a  vow  that  night, 
which  she  tried  her  best  to  keep,  not  to  regard 
Fanny  St.  Simon  so  harshly.  Who  was  she, 
that  she  should  sit  in  judgment  on  any  human 
creature  ?  She  wrote  a  note  to  the  Tortoise  re 
counting  Fanny's  bravery ;  and  the  Tortoise  and 
Spencer  were  frightened  half  to  death  at  the  idea 
of  what  the  girl  had  done,  and  Gregory  Alleyne 
praised  and  admired  her,  till  Fanny  went  into  an 
inward  rage,  and  said  a  dozen  honeyed  things 
about  Helen  Devereux  which  cut  him  to  the 
quick. 

The  next  morning  Helen  departed  for  Paris, 
and  the  day  following  Gregory  Alleyne  set  off 
on  his  tour.  He  wanted  to  wait  and  escort 
Fanny  and  the  Tortoise  on  their  journey ;  but 
the  young  lady  would  not  hear  of  his  taking  such 
perfectly  unnecessary  trouble. 

"Roland  Spencer  will  convoy  us  under  his 
wing,"  she  said.  "  I  am  selfish  enough,  but  not 
quite  a  monster.  There  is  no  use  of  your  hav 
ing  a  five  hours'  solitary  journey  back." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


143 


"I  shall  follow  you  soon, "he  observed.  "I 
would  rather  go  now,  but  you  don't  want  me." 

"That  is  not  a  nice  way  to  put  it, "said  she. 
"I  shall  have  time  to  get  over  ray  hurry,  and  to 
be  good-natured." 

"You  are  not  sorry  as  the  day  approaches?" 
he  asked,  suddenly. 

"There's  a  question !" 

"Don't  laugh,  Fanny.  Tell  me  that  you 
do  care ;  that  you  are  certain  that  we  shall  be 
happy." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  is  an  assurance  I  might 
more  naturally  demand  from  you,"  returned  she, 
lightly. 

"We  will  be!  we  must  be!"  he  exclaimed, 
with  an  eagerness  unusual.  "We  are  both 
tired,  and  need  rest ;  we  will  try  to  find  it,  try 
to  do  our  duty,  and  peace  and  happiness  will 
come !" 

She  did  not  answer.  It  was  less  easy  now  to 
hold  out  those  false  hopes  than  during  the  first 
weeks  of  their  engagement.  So  when  he  repeat 
ed  his  question  again  and  again,  putting  it  in  dif 
ferent  forms,  trying  to  hear  from  her  lips  assur 
ances  which  should  silence  the  doubts  that  trou 
bled  his  mind,  she  got  away  from  any  serious 
discussion.  She  teased,  and  jested,  and  looked 
very  bewitching ;  but  he  was  not  satisfied. 

Ever  since  his  return  from  America  he  had 
felt  that  there  was  an  indefinable  change  in  her ; 
he  did  not  acknowledge  this,  but  he  felt  it  all  the 
same.  He  would  not,  either,  have  admitted  to 
himself  that  he  had  begun  occasionally  to  ques 
tion  the  future  rather  drearily,  and  yet  he  did  so. 

Could  he  a  second  time  be  fated  to  meet  with 
disappointment?  Were  worldly  considerations 
at  work  in  this  woman's  mind?  had  they  influ 
enced  her  from  the  beginning?  It  seemed  base 
and  vile  to  harbor  such  fancies  even  long  enough 
to  give  an  indignant  refusal.  He  was  shocked 
when  he  found  them  in  his  mind,  and  drove 
them  out  as  he  might  positive  suggestions  from 
the  Evil  One.  Still,  the  peace  and  repose  which 
he  had  thought  would  come  with  the  near  ap 
proach  of  his  marriage  day  looked  as  far  off  as 
they  had  done  during  the  night  and  tempest 
through  which  he  had  struggled  in  the  past.  He 
set  out  upon  his  solitary  expedition,  wandering 
about  the  recesses  of  beautiful  Normandy,  sick 
and  sore  at  heart,  weary  of  his  own  changes  of 
feeling,  calling  himself  vacillating  and  weak, 
growing  eager  to  see  Fanny  again,  in  the  hope 
that  her  presence  might  once  more  exorcise  the 
dark  thoughts  which  haunted  him. 

And  Fanny  accomplished  her  little  journey  in 
the  highest  spirits.  The  Tortoise  always  slept  in 
a  railway  train  ;  so  her  niece  and  Spencer  could 
converse  without  restraint. 

"You  wonder  at  me,  I  know,"  Fanny  said 
more  than  once.  "You  will  think  me  utterly 
heartless.  Ah,  if  I  were !  Let  me  alone,  Ro 
land,  let  me  forget !  I  am  like  a  prisoner  who 


has  had  a  respite.  The  day  of  execution  must 
come;  but  at  least  it  is  put  off!  I  have  ten 
whole  days  to  myself.  Oh,  it  seems  a  great 
deal  now!  Don't  make  me  think." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

AN   AWKWARD   MEETING. 

OCTOBER  had  come,  and  Fanny  St.  Simon  be 
gan  to  count  in  days  the  time  before  her  wed 
ding. 

"  You  have  put  it  off,  and  put  it  off.  Should 
any  thing  happen  now,  you  may  blame  yourself." 

If  St.  Simon  said  this  once  to  her  during  the 
first  week  of  her  return,  he  said  it  twenty  times, 
each  morning,  noon,  and  night.  He  could  be 
wearying  enough  on  occasion,  Fanny  knew ;  but 
any  thing  like  this  "damnable  iteration,"  and 
the  unaccountable  irritability  which  he  displayed 
with  or  without  reason,  she  had  never  encount 
ered  in  all  her  experience  of  his  habits. 

"Is  there  any  thing  the  matter?  Are  you  in 
any  trouble  ?"  This  question  was  often  on  her 
lips,  in  spite  of  knowing  its  uselessness. 

Sometimes  the  inquiry  put  him  into  a  furious 
passion,  which  Fanny  did  not  in  the  least  mind  ; 
but  more  frequently  he  declared  that  his  anxiety 
was  wholly  on  her  account. 

"What  trouble  should  I  be  in?  I  am  only 
thinking  of  you.!' 

"  But  ther^reno  necessity  for  such  excessive 
fears,  St.  Simon.  Certainly,  every  thing  is  going 
well  enough  with  me." 

"  I  know  you  so  perfectly.  You  are  capable 
of  upsetting  your  own  plans  at  the  last  moment. 
Why,  it  would  not  surprise  me  to  see  you  have 
a  spasm  of  rage,  or  remorse,  or  something  else 
ridiculous  with  a  fine  name,  in  the  very  church, 
and  to  hear  you  say  you  wouldn't  marry  him." 

"Oh,  please  don't  nag,  St.  Simon!" 

She  never  gave  any  harsh  replies,  nor  did  his 
jeremiads  and  reproaches  affect  her  in  the  least. 
She  watched  him  narrowly,  and  was  as  much 
troubled  on  his  account  as  he  professed  to  be  on 
hers. 

He  looked  jaded  and  worn  ;  though  that  might 
proceed  from  dissipation  rather  than  care.  He 
had  gone  back  almost  openly  to  his  evil  courses ; 
she  knew  this.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  busi 
ness;  always  seeing  people,  or  receiving  letters 
or  telegrams ;  though  he  found  plenty  of  leisure 
for  his  reckless  pleasures.  Sometimes,  too,  there 
was  a  lack  of  ready  money;  fortunately  their 
credit  in  all  quarters  was  so  good  that  this  rare 
ly  caused  any  embarrassment.  A  little  later 
Fanny  discovered  that  St.  Simon  had  borrowed 
from  Roland  Spencer.  She  noticed  ho  grew 
very  confidential  with  the  young  man :  it  oc 
curred  to  her  at  once  what  that  meant,  and  she 
did  not  scruple  to  put  Roland  on  his  guard ;  of 


144 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


course  too  delicately  to  injure  St.  Simon.  But 
it  was  too  late ;  she  perceived  this  by  Spencer's 
face,  though  he  said  nothing.  But  lie  had  al 
ready  lent  the  money,  and  Fanny  feared  it  was 
a  much  larger  sum  than  he  could  easily  spare. 
St.  Simon  would  not  stop  at  a  small  amount. 

She  questioned  Besson  as  closely  as  she  dared ; 
but  Besson  was  in  ignorance  of  any  thing  being 
wrong,  and  she  would  waken  his  suspicions  by  a 
betrayal  of  anxiety.  Besides,  she  found  the  poor 
old  man  in  wretched  health ;  he  had  begun  to 
fail  early  the  previous  spring,  but  it  was  evident 
now  that  he  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  his 
pilgrimage.  When  Fanny  returned  to  Paris  he 
was  not  well  enough  to  go  and  see  her,  and  as 
soon  as  she  heard  that,  she  made  a  journey  down 
into  the  Quartier  Montmartre.  No  change  of 
fortune  could  induce  Besson  to  remove  from  the 
place  where  he  had  lived  so  long;  the  dingy 
apartment  in  the  dark,  narrow  street  was  dearer 
than  ever  to  him  since  it  had  been  Fanny's  home 
for  a  time.  Every  article  of  furniture  was  left 
just  as  she  had  arranged  it  during  her  sojourn. 
A  work-basket  and  some  books  which  had  been 
forgotten  on  the  table  of  the  salon,  in  the  hurry 
of  their  departure,  were  there  still  when  Fanny 
went  to  visit  him. 

The  old  man  was  up  and  dressed,  in  expecta 
tion  of  her  arrival,  and  his  wasted  face  and  dim 
eyes  lighted  with  joy  on  her  entrance ;  but  she 
was  so  shocked  by  his  appearance  that  she  could 
not  hide  her  emotion. 

"Oh,  Besson!"  she  cried,  hurrying  toward 
him,  and  taking  his  withered,  trembling  hands 
between  hers.  "My  poor,  dear  Besson !  Why 
did  you  not  send  me  word  you  were  ill  ?  I  would 
have  come  back  and  nursed  you." 

"I  know  you  would,"  he  answered,  gratefully ; 
"but  I  could  not  have  you  wearied  by  my  trou 
bles.  Indeed,  I  have  not  really  been  ill ;  I  seem 
gradually  going  to  bits,  that  is  all." 

"  Don't  say  that,  dear  Besson  !  You  will  get 
better ;  you  must  have  good  doctors.  I  am  sure 
you  have  neglected  yourself." 

"No,  my  little  one,  no!  All  the  doctors  in 
Paris  could  not  help  me:  I  have  had  Du  Va- 
rieu." 

"And  what  does  he  say?" 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He  says  nothing;  but  that  is  what  he  does, 
Fanny." 

"I  can't  have  you  stay  here  alone,  you  must 
be  moved  to  our  hotel ;  I  shall  nurse  you  my 
self,"  returned  she. 

"The  good  child— the  dear  one!  But  I  am 
better  here;  I  like  the  quiet  and  the  solitude. 
You  shall  come  to  see  ttie  now  and  then ;  that  is 
all  I  need  to  make  me  quite  content.  I  have 
missed  my  beautiful  sunbeam ;  oh  yes,  I  have 
missed  her." 

"Why  did  you  not  let  me  know?"  she  re 
peated.  "If  you  had  only  sent  for  me !" 


"The  dear  kind  heart !"  smiled  Besson. 

"  I  would  much  rather  have  been  with  you," 
she  continued,  and  meant  no  falsehood  as  she 
spoke. 

"I  counted  the  weeks:  at  the  end  of  each  I 
said,  seven  days  less  to  wait ;  that  helped  the 
time  to  pass,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  Besson!"  she  cried,  "nobody  will  ever 
care  for  me  so  much  as  you  ;  I  wish  I  were  more 
worthy ;  I  wish  I  were  a  better  woman." 

"Do  not  say  that — not  that!  I  shall  wait 
for  you  up  there,  Fanny,  as  I  have  waited  for 
your  coming  all  this  long  summer.  I  do  not 
know  where  it  will  be ;  but  the  little  book  yon 
der  says  His  mercy  is  without  bounds,  and  I  be 
lieve  it  now.  There  will  be  a  nook  up  in  the 
sunshine  that  they  will  give  the  old  man,  and  I 
shall  wait  for  you." 

"Oh,  Besson,  Besson!" 

"The  good  heart — the  kind  heart!  She  will 
miss  the  poor  crooked  old  fellow ;  she  does  not 
like  to  think  of  his  going.  But  I  have  noth 
ing  more  to  do  here,  Fanny ;  I  had  better  be 
gone." 

"  No,  no ;  I  want  you,  I  need  you." 

"  The  dear  Fanny !"  he  said,  softly. 

She  was  kneeling  beside  him,  her  head  resting 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  His  wrinkled  hand 
played  gently  over  her  hair,  and  he  went  on 
dreamily, 

"In  the  sunlight  that  never  shall  fade,  the 
rest  that  is  eternal.  It  is  all  written — there,  in 
the  little  book — full  of  His  promises. " 

Wait  for  her !  He  would  wait  for  her  up  in 
the  eternal  sunlight  and  the  eternal  repose  to 
which  his  guileless  soul  was  going  forward. 
And  she?  Fanny  St.  Simon  was  not  given  to 
thoughts  or  fears  where  the  life  beyond  this  was 
concerned.  She  regarded  it  almost  as  reckless 
ly  as  she  did  the  earthly  existence.  But  the 
old  man's  words  roused  a  vague  yearning  in  her 
mind.  She  was  not  frightened ;  she  did  not 
tremble  at  the  idea  of  future  punishment ;  she 
told  herself  it  could  be  no  worse  than  the  tor 
tures  she  had  already  endured.  What  she  did 
feel  was  a  strange  longing  for  the  repose  and 
brightness  of  which  he  spoke ;  felt  it  perhaps  for 
the  first  time ;  feeling,  too,  no  hope  that  it  would 
ever  be  hers.  Not  because  infinite  mercy — and 
she  supposed  it  existed  up  there — would  with 
hold  such  peace  on  account  of  her  sins,  but  be 
cause  she  could  not  fancy  her  fiery,  impatient 
soul  at  rest,  content  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  and 
be  still. 

She  wanted  to  get  away  from  such  reflections 
— to  change  the  conversation. 

"What  was  St.  Simon  about,  not  to  let  me 
know  you  had  been  ill!"  she  exclaimed,  angrily, 
as  she  rose  from  her  knees,  and  began  walking 
up  and  down. 

"He  is  very  busy,  besides,  he  has  not  been 
back  long,"  Besson  answered.  "Do  not  blame 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


145 


St.  Simon ;    he  is  kind ;   he  has  been  several 
times  already  to  see  me." 

"My  poor  Besson— my  good,  unselfish  Bes- 
son!"  murmured  Fanny,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"But  you  must  not  cry  for  me,  Fanny !  See, 
I  am  only  broken  down  and  feeble ;  I  may  last 
a  good  while  yet.  Tell  me  about  yourself — 
about  the  marriage — if  you  are  happy." 

She  gave  the  best  account  she  could  for  fear 
of  paining  him,  and  he  listened  attentively  with 
that  sad,  patient  smile  she  knew  so  well  upon  his 
face. 

She  remembered  he  had  begun  gradually  to 
fail  from  the  time  that  her  marriage  had  been 
decided.  She  was  an  evil  fate  to  every  human 
being  who  crossed  her  path ;  even  to  this  old 
man,  who  had  no  thought  or  care  but  for  her. 
She  said  this  bitterly  enough  to  her  soul,  though 
not  in  terror  or  remorse.  It  was  true,  too,  that 
the  change  in  Besson  dated  back  to  this  season, 
lie  had  grieved  sorely  from  a  dread  that  she 
suffered  after  the  news  in  regard  to  Castlemaine 
destroyed  her  dream,  and  when  the  reaction  fol 
lowed — her  engagement ;  his  belief  that  she  was 
content — he  began  to  feel  his  part  ended.  She 
did  not  need  him  any  longer,  and  there  was 
nothing  else  for  him  to  do  in  this  world  ;  he  had 
better  be  gone.  Then  came  the  solitary  sum 
mer,  and  his  mental  loneliness  increased  his 
physical  ills.  Besson  had  no  idea  of  complaining 
— no  thought  that  he  was  badly  treated.  Had  he 
possessed  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  he  would  nev 
er  have  dreamed  of  any  thing  so  incongruous  as 
Fanny  becoming  his  wife.  But  he  loved  her ; 
he  had  always  loved  her.  A  care  for  her  future 
had  been  his  one  task  during  years.  There  was 
no  necessity  longer  for  such  solicitude;  so  his 
work  here  was  finished,  and,  being  finished,  it 
was  better  he  should  go. 

Unconsciously  as  he  had  listened  to  her  plans, 
he  murmured  the  words  distinctly  enough,  so  that 
she  caught  a  portion  of  them. 

"Go  where?  What  are  you  talking  of,  dear 
Besson  ?"  she  asked. 

"Only  thinking  aloud,"  he  answered,  still 
smiling.  "I  do  think  often  now  about  the  jour 
ney  before  me — the  long,  long  journey." 

"Ah,  don't  talk  so,  Besson!" 

"Not  if  it  pains  the  little  one.  But  I  am 
cheerful — see,  quite  cheerful." 

He  began,  however,  to  speak  of  other  things. 
She  sat  a  long  time  with  him,  and  he  brightened 
wonderfully  in  the  pleasure  of  her  society. 

"We  will  have  some  tea,"  he  said;  "you 
shall  make  it,  if  you  will.  There  are  the  cups 
on  that  table  ;  Babette  will  bring  hot  water." 

"But  you  have  one  white  cup  among  these 
pink  ones," Fanny  said ;  "  how  is  that?" 

"That  is  mine;  you  must  give  mo  that. 
Babette  told  me  you  always  drank  tea  out  of 
that,  so  I  took  it." 

10 


"How  did  Babette  know?"  Fanny  asked, 
trying  to  laugh,  but  hearing  a  little  sob  in  her 
own  voice. 

"Oh,  Antoinette  told  her,  I  suppose;  they 
were  great  friends.  Antoinette  comes  to  see  us 
sometimes ;  but  she  is  a  very  grand  person  in 
these  days,"  Besson  answered,  with  a  smile. 

They  drank  their  tea,  a  beverage  Besson  was 
too  thoroughly  French  really  to  like,  though  he 
made  a  point  to  drink  it  daily  because  Fanny 
was  fond  of  it,  and  chatted  very  pleasantly. 

Then  Fanny  walked  slowly  about  the  different 
rooms,  recalling  the  months  she  had  spent  there, 
reflecting  upon  all  which  had  happened  since, 
and  wishing  anew  that  St.  Simon  had  never  re 
turned. 

She  discovered  that  Besson  believed  the  af 
fairs  of  the  mine  going  splendidly.  According 
to  him,  not  a  soul  with  an  interest  in  the  matter 
but  would  become  as  rich  as  Croesus.  If  there 
was  aught  amiss,  St.  Simon  evidently  took  pains 
to  deceive  him,  and  Fanny  had  not  the  heart  to 
disturb  his  content  by  so  much  as  a  hint.  The 
fortune  he  now  considered  actually  his  own,  Bes 
son  valued  solely  on  her  account;  it  was  to  be 
hers — add  to  her  comfort  and  splendor. 

"  I  used  to  think  it  would  be  more  necessary 
to  you  than  it  is,"  he  said  ;  "  but  all  the  same  I 
am  glad  you  will  have  it.  You  will  be  quite  in 
dependent  of  your  rich  husband :  that  is  alwavs 
well." 

"I  shall  expect  you  to  get  strong,  and  help  en 
joy  it,"  Fanny  answered,  scarcely  knowing  what 
to  say,  yet  realizing,  as  she  looked  at  the  pale 
old  man,  that  such  words  were  almost  a  mockery. 

"I  have  every  thing  I  want,"  he  said.  "You 
will  come  to  see  me  when  you  can ;  there  is  noth 
ing  could  do  me  so  much  good." 

"  Of  course  I  shah1  come.  I  wish  you  would 
let  me  take  you  home  to  stay." 

But  Besson  gently  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  best  as  it  is,  little  one.  I  am  quite  hap 
py — quite.  There  must  be  gay  doings  chez  vous 
— it  is  right;  and  I  never  was  well  suited  to  such 
things,  less  than  ever  now." 

Besson  did  not  even  feel  inclined  to  blame  St. 
Simon  for  the  extravagant  mode  of  life  he  had 
adopted.  The  wily  gentleman  told  him  in  the 
beginning  these  lavish  expenditures  were  solely 
on  Fanny's  account,  absolutely  essential  where 
her  interests  were  concerned.  After  this  Besson 
could  not  dream  of  disapproving. 

Fanny  discovered,  too,  that  St.  Simon  had 
managed  to  secure  nearly  all  the  money  the  old 
man  had  put  aside  from  the  sale  of  a  small  por 
tion  of  his  shares.  She  was  confident  this  also 
had  been  done  under  the  pretense  that  it  was  re 
quired  for  the  expenses  of  her  marriage,  but  she 
could  not  venture  to  question  Besson,  nor  was  it 
worth  while  to  have  a  quarrel  with  St.  Simon. 
Indeed,  she  felt  sorry  for  him  at  this  time ;  habit, 
associations,  and  many  similar  tastes  and  inter- 


14G 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


ests  formed  a  strong  bond  between  uncle  and 
niece ;  and  Fanny  sympathized  with  the  anxiety 
which,  from  some  cause,  beset  him.  They  had 
struggled  through  too  much  together  for  her  ever 
to  become  indifferent  to  St.  Simon.  She  looked 
for  neither  honor  nor  honesty  where  he  was  con 
cerned,  so  nothing  he  might  do  would  alter  her 
interest. 

In  spite  of  the  bothers  and  occupation  which 
she  had  declared  to  Alleyne  were  to  be  her  por 
tion  during  the  first  fortnight  she  spent  in  Par 
is,  Fanny  found  time  to  visit  Bcsson  nearly  ev 
ery  day.  She  took  Roland  Spencer  to  see  him 
also,  and  the  invalid  always  brightened  wonder 
fully  under  the  charm  of  her  presence.  But  he 
failed  rapidly  from  the  time  she  arrived :  igno 
rant  as  Fanny  was  of  illness,  she  perceived  this, 
and  hardly  knew  whether  to  grieve  or  be  glad. 
She  consulted  Du  Varieu  herself,  and  learned 
that  her  suspicions  were  correct :  it  was  almost 
the  end. 

At  the  expiration  of  a  fortnight  Alleyne  re 
turned.  He  had  written  frequently  during  the 
journey;  pleasant,  chatty  letters  detailing  his 
wanderings  among  the  quaint  Norman  villages ; 
letters  not  over  lover-like,  perhaps,  though  he 
spoke  much  of  their  future,  dwelling  upon  that 
peace  and  rest  which  they  were  to  find. 

"One  would  suppose  he  actually  believed  such 
trifles  were  to  be  had  in  this  world  for  the  ask 
ing,"  said  Fanny,  scornfully,  as  she  threw  aside 
his  latest  epistle,  the  last  she  would  receive.  "  So 
he  will  be  here  to  morrow.  Well,  once  married, 
I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  find  means  to  keep  him 
away  a  great  deal." 

She  saw  plainly  that  the  man  was  not  satisfied 
with  the  state  of  his  own  mind,  and  waxed  as 
bitterly  indignant  as  if  she  had  loved  him,  and  he 
were  willfully  deceiving  her. 

The  next  day  she  told  St.  Simon  that  Alleyne 
would  arrive  in  time  to  come  and  dine,  but  he 
only  said,  snappishly, 

"I  don't  venture  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of 
a  young  woman  so  very  capable  as  you." 

"You  are  quite  right, "she  answered,  calmly; 
"but  I  wouldn't  be  cross,  St.  Simon;  above  all, 
not  before  Alleyne.  He  may  get  the  suspicion 
that  I  am  a  bad  bargain,  if  you  seem  so  anxious 
to  be  rid  of  me." 

Fanny  had  a  variety  of  things  to  do,  and  the 
Tortoise  was  tired  of  going  about ;  so  she  took 
Antoinette  in  the  carriage,  and  left  her  relative 
to  that  sleepy  idleness  which  was  her  idea  of 
bliss. 

"  If  Miss  Devereux  comes  as  she  promised, 
be  sure  you  keep  her,  T.,"  Fanny  said.  "Tell 
her  I  have  a  particular  reason  for  wanting  to 
see  her.  I  may  be  a  little  late ;  I  shall  go  sit 
a  while  with  Besson  after  I  am  through  at  La 
Touche's." 

Fanny  did  not  inform  the  Tortoise  of  Alley  ne's 
expected  arrival ;  it  was  never  good  for  her 


nerves  to  tell  her  things  in  advance.  She  knew 
Helen  Devereux  would  come ;  Fanny  had  told 
her  that  she  wanted  to  go  to  poor  Besson,  and 
that  her  aunt  always  moped  in  her  absence. 
Miss  Devereux  offered  to  sit  with  her ;  so  Fan 
ny  hoped  that  by  returning  late  she  could  keep 
the  lady  to  dinner,  and  thus  annoy  her  and  Al 
leyne.  It  really  seemed  to  the  wayward  creature 
that  to  worry  and  tease  either  of  the  pair  was 
about  the  only  comfort  possible  to  her  at  this  pe 
riod.  She  quite  looked  forward  to  seeing  them 
together  again,  in  order  that  she  might  have  the 
satisfaction  of  tormenting  both  at  once. 

Even  on  her  first  meeting  with  Helen  after  she 
came  up  to  Paris,  she  had  been  so  provoking 
that  the  latter  was  obliged  to  keep  a  firm  hold 
of  her  resolution  to  judge  the  girl  less  harshly. 
That  the  remembrance  of  the  danger  from  which 
Fanny  had  saved  her  might  bring  about  any 
better  state  of  feeling  between  them,  Miss  Dever 
eux  found  could  not  be  hoped.  Fanny  showed 
plainly  that  the  idea  of  having  Helen  feel  under 
obligations  to  her  irked  the  incomprehensible 
girl  as  deeply  as  if  it  had  been  she  who  ought  to 
indulge  in  gratitude. 

"I  am  sick  of  hearing  about  it,"  she  cried,  ir 
ritably.  "I  never  helped  any  body  before,  and 
I  vow  I  never  will  again.  As  for  your  being  in 
danger,  that  is  just  trash  and  nonsense.  I  made 
old  Antoine  Treasure  the  depth  of  the  water  at 
high  tide ;  it  was  only  a  few  inches  over  the 
rock." 

"One  would  think  it  was  you  who  had  been 
there,  and  I  the  one  to  aid  you,  you  are  so  cross 
with  me,"  Helen  said,  trying  not  to  be  glad  that 
there  was  no  occasion,  for  intense  thankfulness. 

"In  such  case  I  should  have  hated  you  for 
ever,"  laughed  Fanny.  "But  it  is  almost  as 
bad  to  be  talked  to  as  if  I  were  a  heroine.  Come, 
now,  let  us  get  back  to  the  old  terms.  Of  course 
I  like  you — I  always  did ;  but  I  like  to  horrify 
you,  and  I  must.  You  think  I  am  jolly  and 
pleasant,  but  you  don't  trust  me,  and  you  are 
right  not  to.  There  is  only  one  consolation :  I 
could  be  so  much  worse  than  I  am." 

Fanny  was  so  correct  in  her  statements,  so  un 
scrupulous  in  her  anatomization,  that  Miss  Dev 
ereux  felt  as  she  had  often  done  before— as  if 
the  creature  were  a  clairvoyant  who  could  rend 
at  will  the  thoughts  of  any  person  who  approach 
ed  her. 

Then  for  a  little  Fanny  petted  her,  then  stung 
her  to  the  very  core  of  her  heart ;  and  even  from 
that  first  interview  Helen  was  forced  to  go  away 
thinking  that  if  she  had  the  strongest  possible 
reasons  for  gratitude,  Miss  St.  Simon  would  tor 
ment  and  outrage  her  till  she  obliterated  every 
trace  thereof.  And  after  her  visitor  had  gone 
Fanny  sat  meditating. 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  murder  her  some  day  be 
fore  I  know  what  I  am  doing.  I  never  think  so 
much  about  Talbot  as  when  I  see  her.  But  I 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


117 


will  be  intimate — I'll  spare  her  nothing.  Only 
she  sha'n't  be  grateful.  I'll  not  have  it !  I 
can't  tell  why  it  vexes  me  so,  but  it  does.  Oh, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  her !  Oh,  Talbot,  Talbot ! " 

There  was  another  stormy  hour  to  pass ;  nev 
er  had  Fanny's  warped  nature  so  struggled  and 
rebelled  against  destiny  as  at  present ;  never  had 
she  felt  so  utterly  desperate,  so  full  of  scorn  for 
the  luxury  and  station  she  had  striven  so  hard 
to  attain,  which  looked  so  poor  and  worthless, 
now  they  were  within  her  reach,  that  she  would 
have  given  the  whole  for  one  smile  from  Talbot's 
lips,  one  loving  glance  from  his  passionate  eyes. 

The  two  girls  met  almost  daily.  On  this  aft 
ernoon  Miss  Devereux  appeared  at  the  house  in 
accordance  with  her  promise.  The  Tortoise 
was  delighted  to  see  her,  and  she  endured  the 
poor  old  soul's  society  patiently  enough,  though 
the  unfortunate  animal  got  on  the  subject  of 
Fanny's  marriage,  and  was  more  talkative  than 
usual,  actually  accomplishing  a  good  many  sen 
tences  without  dropping  into  dozes  in  the  middle. 
And  while  she  maundered  on,  expatiating  upon 
Fanny's  goodness,  Fanny's  future  glories,  the 
merits  of  Fanny's  betrothed,  and  similar  topics, 
an  imperial  photograph  of  the  young  woman 
which  stood  on  a  hand  easel  seemed  to  Miss 
Devereux  to  watch  her  every  movement,  and 
look  with  a  smile  of  triumphant  malice  at  the 
sort  of  pin-and-needle  martyrdom  she  was  un 
dergoing. 

Toward  dusk  the  carriage  was  announced  for 
the  visitor,  but  the  Tortoise,  strengthened  into  a 
sudden  spasm  of  memory  by  her  five-o'clock  cup 
of  tea,  which  Miss  Devereux  hVd  prepared,  recol 
lected  Fanny's  request,  and  fairly-held  on  to  the 
guest's  skirts. 

"Fanny  wanted  so  much  to  see  you.  I  prom 
ised  you  would  stay,"  she  said,  growing  nervous 
and  anxious  when  Miss  Devereux  proposed  re 
turning  in  the  morning  instead.  "She  has  some 
thing  to  consult  about.  Oh,  don't  go.  St.  Si 
mon  will  think  I  did  not  tiy  to  keep  you;  and 
he's  queer  these  days — he  is,  indeed — even  to 
Fanny,  though  she  doesn't  mind ;  and  I  can't  tell 
whether  they  are  in  fun  or  earnest,  they  make 
my  head  whirl  so.  Only  please  don't  go,  Miss 
Devereux — please  don't ! " 

So  Helen  sat  down  again,  and  presently  the 
Tortoise  fell  fast  asleep  in  her  chair,  and  the 
slow  cadence  of  her  customary  "peck,  peck!" 
was  the  only  sound  which  disturbed  the  stillness. 
Miss  Devereux  sunk  into  a  reverie  almost  as 
deep  as  her  companion's  slumber.  The  gray 
shadows  of  twilight  crept  into  the  room,  and 
filled  it  so  completely  that  only  the  embers  on 
the  hearth  made  a  faint  point  of  light. 

It  was  late.  St.  Simon  had  come  in,  gone  to 
his  room,  and  dressed ;  but,  learning  who  was 
with  his  wife,  and  that  his  niece  had  not  entered, 
sat  brooding  over  the  masses  of  papers  which  lit 
tered  his  table;  and  in  these  days,  when  alone 


and  thus  occupied,  very  worn  and  haggard  St. 
Simon  looked. 

Presently  the  door  of  the  Tortoise's  salon  open 
ed  softly.  Some  person  was  close  to  her  chair 
before  Miss  Devereux  knew  it.  A  hand  touched 
her  arm,  a  voice  said  quickly, 

"Fanny,  Fanny!  I  just  caught  the  gleam  of 
something  white  in  the  dark.  Oh,  it  is  your  aunt 
wrapped  in  her  shawl !  Are  you  glad  to  see  me, 
Fanny?" 

Gregory  Alleyne's  voice.  He  was  bending  for 
ward;  his  lips  were  almost  touching  her  fore 
head.  Miss  Devereux  pushed  her  chair  hastily 
back,  saying, 

"  It  is  not  Miss  St.  Simon,  Mr.  Alleyne.  Al 
low  me  to  welcome  you  back,  though." 

He  muttered  some  confused  words,  and  stood 
still.  He  had  only  understood  from  the  servant 
that  the  ladies  were  in  Mrs.  St.  Simon's  salon, 
and  hurried  up. 

"  If  one  could  find  the  bell  one  might  at  least 
ring  for  lights,"  observed  Miss  Devereux,  as 
calmly  as  though  not  nearly  overcome  by  a  trou 
ble  which  was  half  anger,  half  compassion. 

"Peck,  peck!"  sounded  the  Tortoise's  low 
refrain. 

Miss  Devereux  tried  to  rise.  Alleyne  mutter 
ed  something  about  making  a  search  for  the  bell, 
upset  a  little  stand  with  the  first  movement  he 
made,  and  as  he  did  so  the  door  opened  again, 
and  Fanny  St.  Simon  entered,  followed  by  a  serv 
ant  bearing  a  large  lamp,  while  in  the  back 
ground  loomed  St.  Simon  himself. 

Dazzled  by  the  sudden  glare,  Miss  Devereux 
could  scarcely  raise  her  eyes.  Alleyne  looked  as 
foolishly  as  only  a  man  can ;  the  stand,  in  falling, 
had  twisted  its  cover  about  his  legs,  and  he  was 
striving  vainly  to  disentangle  himself  from  this 
impromptu  winding-sheet.  The  Tortoise,  roused 
out  of  her  slumber  by  the  noise,  was  in  a  fright, 
as  usual  if  abruptly  awakened,  and  began  a  se 
ries  of  strangled  squeaks  and  incoherent  ques 
tions. 

The  tableau  was  as  absurd  as  could  easily  have 
been  devised,  and  Fanny  enjoyed  it  hugely  dur 
ing  the  second  she  remained  in  the  door-wtty, 
with  St.  Simon  silently  chuckling  behind  her. 

"All  in  the  dark!"  exclaimed  she.  "Why, 
Grego'ry,  they  did  not  tell  me  you  had  come." 

"lam  glad  you  have  thrown  a  little  light  on 
the  scene,"  observed  Miss  Devereux. 

"Oh,  oh!  where  are  we?"  moaned  the  Tor 
toise.  "Helen  and  I  were  all  alone,  and  so 
comfortable.  Oh,  who  is  that  ?  Oh,  oh !" 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Devereux," 
Fanny  said,  moving  forward.  "  Well,  Mr.  Al 
leyne,  why  are  you  trying  to  muffle  your  legs  in 
my  aunt's  pet  table-cover  ?" 

Then  they  all  laughed:  the  catastrophe  was 
explained,  only  Helen  Devereux  did  not  add  how 
close  the  new-comer's  lips  had  been  to  her  face, 
and  how  strange  a  shock  it  gave  her  to  feel 


148 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


Gregory  Alleyne's  breath  once  again  fanning  her 
forehead. 

Mr.  Alleyne  got  his  wits  back,  saluted  his  be 
trothed  decorously,  greeted  the  Tortoise,  received 
St.  Simon's  cordial  welcome,  and  even  managed 
to  say  with  tolerable  ease, 

"I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Devereux, 
for  my  awkward  entrance.  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you,  now  that  I  can.  Dear  Mrs.  St.  Simon, 
why  do  you  have  tables  set  as  traps  about  your 
room,  to  catch  awkward  men's  legs  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  didn't ;  I  never  did !"  sighed  the  Tor 
toise.  "  Helen  and  I  had  our  tea,  and  then  we 
both  dozed  and  were  comfortable,  and  you  all 
came  in  shouting  and  falling  over  us — " 

"Now  I  think  Anastasia's  explanation  the 
most  lucid  of  any,"  interrupted  St.  Simon,  laugh 
ing. 

The  Tortoise  subsided  into  silence,  and  kept 
staring  from  one  to  the  other  with  eyes  as  round 
as  an  owl's. 

A  few  more  pleasant  words,  then  Miss  Dever 
eux  rose  and  gathered  up  her  wraps,  which  she 
had  thrown  on  a  chair.  St.  Simon  and  Fanny 
began  to  exclaim,  but  she  would  not  hear  of  re 
maining. 

"I  only  staid,"  she  said,  "  because  your  aunt 
thought  you  were  anxious  to  see  me  about  some 
thing.  We  can  arrange  it,  however,  whatever  it 
was,  in  the  morning." 

"I  wanted  you  to  stay  dinner,  that  was  all," 
Fanny  answered. 

"  Thanks  ;  but  I  told  marnina  I  should  come 
home :  she  will  wait  for  me,"  was  the  reply. 

"We  can  send  word,"  observed  St.  Simon. 

"Ah,  now  you  are  thinking  about  your  dress," 
cried  Fanny.  "I'll  not  dress  either.  These 
men  will  never  know ;  and  that  gray  silk  is  so 
becoming  to  you  ;  isn't  it,  Gregory  ?" 

"It  is  not  on  account  of  my  dress,"  returned 
Miss  Devereux,  quite  appreciating  Fanny's  neat 
attempt  to  make  her  appear  missish  and  absurd. 
"I  must  go  home;  we  have  friends  coming  to 
night." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  Indeed,  now 
Fanny  did  not  care  whether  she  staid  or  went. 
The  lady  and  Alleyne  together  had  presented  a 
ridiculous  picture,  and  they  knew  it ;  so  Fanny 
decided  that  the  Tortoise  had  not  detained  her 
guest  in  vain. 

Miss  Devereux  made  her  adieus  with  a  com 
posure  which  did  not  deceive  her  enemy,  and  St. 
Simon  offered  his  aim.  She  always  hated  to 
take  St.  Simon's  arm ;  Fanny  knew  that,  too. 

The  visitor  having  departed,  Miss  St.  Simon 
did  not  wait  for  any  more  affectionate  interview 
with  her  betrothed. 

"It  is  horribly  late, "she  said.  "Come,  T., 
we  must  dress.  Mr.  Alleyne,  if  you  go  down  to 
the  library,  we  will  not  keep  you  waiting  ten  min 
utes  ;  I  am  sure  you  are  hungry. " 

Guests  were  almost  certain  to  drop  in  before  the 


evening  was  over,  and  Fanny  had  no  intention 
of  appearing  in  an  unbecoming  out-of-door  cos 
tume  just  to  allow  Mr.  Alleyne  the  half  hour  be 
fore  dinner.  A  woman's  ten  minutes  always 
means  that  length  of  time,  when  changing  her 
dress  is  concerned. 

While  occupied  with  her  toilet,  Fanny  laughed 
again  at  the  tableau  which  had  greeted  her  en 
trance.  But  Alleyne  in  the  library,  trying  to 
listen  to  St.  Simon's  conversation,  did  not  laugh 
as  he  recalled  the  hurried  scene.  He  felt  hot 
and  angry ;  he  was  recollecting  that  his  lips  had 
nearly  touched  Helen  Devereux's  forehead  ;  and 
memory,  with  odious  pertinacity,  kept  bringing 
back  the  last  time  he  had  really  pressed  a  kiss 
upon  that  white  brow. 

Very  similar  reflections  were  in  Miss  Dever 
eux's  mind  as  she  sat  among  her  guests  that 
night,  and,  try  as  she  might,  she  could  not  get 
away  from  them.  They  had  been  happy  once ; 
the  world  looked  wondrous  bright  then,  and  faith 
and  truth  seemed  to  guard  the  way  on  either 
hand.  It  lay  a  long  distance  off  now,  that  beau 
tiful  season  ;  awful  storms  and  earthquakes  and 
utter  desolation  swept  between ;  but  it  looked 
beautiful  still,  as  the  memory  of  the  beloved  dead 
looks  to  us,  and  we  forget  errors  and  wrongs, 
and  only  recollect  that  they  were  dearer  than 
aught  earthly  can  ever  be  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

NEARER. 

THE  days  got  by. 

St.  Simon  tried  hard  to  behave  like  his  cus 
tomary  self,  but  the  effort  was  apparent  to  Fan 
ny.  He  had  great  difficulty,  also,  to  subdue  the 
odd  irritability  which  formerly  he  never  betrayed  ; 
still  he  tried,  Fanny  admitted.  Indeed,  he  did 
not  often  even  persecute  the  Tortoise,  and  for 
this  his  niece  gave  him  great  credit.  She  knew 
that,  when  anxious  or  suffering,  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  him  to  avoid  making  a  souffre- 
douleur  of  the  defenseless  animal. 

He  talked  so  freely  and  hopefully  about  the 
mine,  that  Fanny  began  to  think  business  might 
have  nothing  to  do  with  this  change  in  him. 
He  was  certainly  in  difficulties,  but  perhaps  only 
because  he  had  wasted  too  much  money.  His 
losses  at  the  gambling-tables  during  the  summer 
had  been  heavy ;  she  learned  that  from  Castle- 
maine. 

He  was  altered,  however,  in  many  ways.  One 
day  he  would  perpetrate  some  reckless  extrava 
gance,  the  next  grumble  over  the  expense  of  the 
Tortoise's  cup  of  afternoon  tea.  But  he  gave 
Fanny  carte-blanche  for  her  wardrobe,  and  did 
not  go  back  from  his  first  offer.  Certainly  no 
creature,  save  a  Russian  princess  or  an  American 
woman,  ever  owned  such  quantities  of  clothes  as 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


149 


Were  preparing  for  her  trousseau.  In  this  mat 
ter  there  was  no  talk  of  money  to  irritate  St. 
Simon's  worn  nerves ;  not  only  Madame  La 
Touche,  but  the  greatest  houses  on  the  Boule 
vards,  and  even  the  immortal  Worth,  were  glad 
to  put  themselves  at  the  orders  of  St.  Simon's 
niece. 

After  all,  Fanny  told  herself,  the  worst  that 
could  happen,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  would 
be  Gregory  Alleyne's  having  to  pay  the  bills  after 
their  marriage.  She  should  not  care ;  it  would 
only  be  a  variation  on  the  French  custom,  which 
renders  it  fitting  for  the  bridegroom  elect  to  pre 
sent  a  corbeille.  Indeed,  she  had  in  the  begin 
ning  proposed  this  course  to  St.  Simon,  but  he 
rejected  it  with  fine  scorn.  They  were  Ameri 
cans  ;  he  would  not  adopt  an  odious  foreign  cus 
tom  which  made  a  woman  and  her  family  ap 
pear  like  beggars.  So  Fanny  said  nothing  more ; 
if  he  had  money,  and  chose  to  spend  it,  she  was 
satisfied.  Now,  however,  it  occurred  to  her  that 
her  future  husband  might  have  to  pay  for  the 
corbeille  du  manage,  although  he  had  not  order 
ed  it.  But  by  the  time  the  disagreeable  possibil 
ity  could  become  a  fact,  Mr.  Alleyne's  opinion 
on  the  subject  would  be  a  matter  of  utter  indif 
ference  to  her. 

Until  those  weeks  spent  in  Talbot  Castle- 
maine's  society,  it  'seemed  easy  enough  to  go 
through  life  keeping  up  appearances  with  herself 
and  her  husband,  and  Fanny  would  like  to  do 
this.  But  the  task  did  not  look  easy  now.  The 
one  absorbing  passion  of  her  youth  had  grown 
•  more  potent  than  ever  during  that  rash  indul 
gence  of  a  last  summer-day  of  happiness. 

Splendor,  position,  every  thing  that  her  mar 
riage  had  to  give,  appeared  so  utterly  empty ! 
What  a  price  she  was  paying  for  a  grandeur  the 
mere  contemplation  of  which  had  grown  odious ! 
She  was  furious  with  her  own  folly,  but  that  did 
not  change  her  feelings.  There  was  only  one 
thought  which  had  any  satisfaction  in  it — she 
was  making  Helen  Devereux  suffer.  She  could 
do  this.  Hide  it  as  skillfully  as  she  might,  the 
proud  girl  suffered :  Fanny  was  certain  of  that. 

But  neither  pleasure,  weariness,  nor  vengeance, 
no  occupation  or  pursuit,  caused  Fanny  to  neg 
lect  poor  Besson.  She  visited  him  regularly. 
Roland  Spencer  went  often,  and  Alleyne  several 
times  accompanied  his  betrothed,  so  that  the  old 
man  was  very  comfortable  and  content.  It  was 
not  selfishness  which  prevented  Alleyne's  offering 
more  frequent  visits.  Fanny  perceived  that  Bes 
son  was  never  quite  at  ease  in  his  presence ; 
never  able  to  forget  that  he  was  young  and 
straight,  and  strong,  and  soon  to  become  her 
husband.  So,  though  Besson  always  asked  about 
him,  and  tried  hard  to  like  his  society,  Fanny  did 
not  often  permit  him  to  go. 

A  few  times,  on  exceptionally  fine  days,  Bes 
son  was  able  to  drive  up  to  St.  Simon's  hotel. 
No  matter  who  might  be  present  to  claim  her  at 


tention,  Fanny  received  him  with  enthusiasm, 
and  petted  him  to  his  heart's  content. 

Her  conduct  was  charming  in  the  eyes  of  both 
Alleyne  and  Roland  Spencer.  Even  St.  Simon 
said,  laughingly, 

"It's  a  good  dodge,  Fan — looks  very  pretty. 
But  there,  you'd  do  it  in  any  case;  I  will  say 
that  for  you." 

But  care  and  kindness  were  not  much  longer 
needed.  Besson  grew  rapidly  weaker,  and  soon 
after  Alleyne's  return  was  unable  to  leave  his 
bed. 

One  day  Fanny  took  Antoinette,  and  went 
down  to  his  apartment  as  usual.  But  she  did 
not  return  at  her  customary  hour.  Alleyne, 
going  to  the  house,  found  her  still  absent,  and  so 
remained  talking  with  the  Tortoise.  Toward 
evening,  however,  the  incoherent  creature  de 
cided  to  have  a  spasm  of  anxiety,  and  to  conceive 
the  idea  that  Fanny  and  Antoinette  had  either 
met  with  some  accident  in  the  carriage,  or,  more 
probably,  been  murdered  on  the  dark  staircase 
of  the  old  house  in  the  Quartier  Montmartre. 
She  showed  more  imagination  in  enlarging  on 
this  latter  supposition  than  Alleyne  would  have 
given  her  credit  for  possessing,  and  really  por 
trayed  quite  a  dramatic  scene,  even  to  the  ar 
rangement  of  the  bloody  corpses  as  they  lay  in  a 
particular  niche  in  the  corridor  of  the  fourth 
floor,  though  what  should  have  taken  the  pair 
thither,  since  Besson  lived  au  second,  did  not  ap 
pear. 

However,  Alleyne  set  out  in  search  of  them, 
partly  to  oblige  the  Tortoise,  partly  to  get  away 
from  her.  The  motives  of  the  best  men  are 
dreadfully  mixed  in  this  world. 

As  he  reached  the  story  where  Besson's  rooms 
were  situated,  old  Babette  was  showing  out  an 
elderly  man  in  the  dress  of  a  cure,  weeping  so 
heartily  that  she  could  only  nod  her  head  in  an 
swer  to  Alleyne's  inquiries  and  motion  him  to 
go  in. 

He  entered  the  bedroom.  Besson  was  lying 
back  among  his  pillows  ;  Fanny  sat  beside  him. 
Roland  Spencer  and  Antoinette  were  both  in  the 
chamber,  but  they  had  retreated  toward  one  of 
the  windows. 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  stole  in,  touch 
ed  the  bands  of  Fanny's  hair  with  a  gleam  of 
gold,  and  glorified  the  face  of  the  old  man,  who 
lay  with  his  hand  clasped  in  hers,  his  eyes  never 
wandering  from  her  countenance. 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  do  now,"  he  was  say 
ing  softly,  as  Alleyne  appeared.  "They  were 
good  words  the  cure  spoke,  Fanny  dear.  Good 
words  to  believe  when  this  time  comes !  Never 
forget." 

They  could  hear  her  voice  in  reply,  but  not 
the  words  she  spoke. 

"Don't  cry,  Fanny;  there  is  nothing  to  cry 
for.  I  am  quite  happy,  quite  content.  The 
great  God  is  very  kind.  I  am  going  where  I 


150 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


shall  be  young  again  ;  no  care,  no  weariness,  no 
crooked  old  body  to  ache ;  and  I  shall  wait  for 
you,  Fanny,  up  in  the  sunshine,  you  know." 

Alleyne  had  gone  softly  to  the  place  where 
Spencer  was  standing.  Old  Babette  crept  in  and 
knelt  by  the  foot  of  the  bed,  weeping  silently. 
There  was  quiet  for  a  little,  then  Besson  spoke 
again. 

"I  leave  you  happy,  Fanny  —  that  was  my 
only  dread— quite  happy.  There  is  the  will.  I 
have  left  it  all  to  you.  Be  sure  he  makes  good 
use  of  the  money.  I  should  like  to  have  seen 
him  once  more ;  I  might  have  told — " 

"  Seen  whom,  dear  Besson  ?" 

"Your  lover.  I  should  have  liked  ;  but  nev 
er  mind." 

Fanny  had  not  looked  up  when  Alleyne  enter 
ed,  but  she  knew  he  was  there :  she  beckoned 
him  to  approach.  He  moved  forward,  and  stood 
by  her  chair. 

"Besson,"  Fanny  said,  "here  is  Mr.  Al 
leyne." 

The  old  man  opened  his  eyes,  looked  unrecog- 
nizingly  at  him,  and  answered, 

"No,  no;  not  him!  It  was  only  that  I 
wanted  to  say  he  must  take  good  care  of  you 
and  the  money.  He  was  a  reckless  fellow ;  but 
he  will  mend.  I  think  he  will  mend." 

His  words  conveyed  no  meaning  to  Alleyne. 
He  only  perceived  that. the  speaker's  mind  was 
Avandering.  But  Fanny  understood  that  Besson 
fancied  her  engaged  to  Castlemaine ;  and  even 
then,  absorbed  as  she  was,  a  fear  crossed  her  lest 
he  might  mention  Talbot's  name — join  it  with 
hers  in  a  way  which  would  afford  Alleyne  some 
glimpse  of  the  secret  he  had  never  suspected. 

But  the  old  man  forgot  the  fancy.  He  began 
to  talk  more  disconnectedly,  and  in  a  fainter 
voice  ;  always  of  the  rest  to  which  he  was  going 
forward — the  cloudless  sunshine  in  which  he 
would  sit  and  wait  for  her. 

The  latest  ray  of  sunlight  faded.  As  it  quiv 
ered  across  the  window-panes,  Besson  raised 
himself,  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  his  voice 
sounded  distinct  and  clear : 

' '  Good-bye,  Fanny !  They  have  come !  You 
will  find  me  up  yonder,  you  know — up  yonder." 

His  head  sunk  on  the  pillow ;  his  eyes  closed, 
opened  again,  still  turned  on  Fanny's  face ;  and 
now  the  pleasant  smile  which  had  ever  crossed 
his  lips  when  he  looked  upon  her  remained  fixed 
and  changeless.  Besson  had  gone  away  to  the 
sunshine  for  which  he  had  yearned  so  long. 

****** 

The  old  man  had  left  a  will,  as  he  said.  The 
mining  stocks  and  shares  which  he  believed  were 
to  prove  so  vast  a  fortune  were  bequeathed  to 
Fanny.  Besides  this  problematic  wealth,  there 
was  a  small  property  in  France,  upon  the  income 
of  which  he  had  lived — somewhere  about  twen 
ty-five  hundred  dollars  a  year.  This  was  Fan 
ny's  too.  There  was  a  little  gift  to  the  faithful 


Babette — that  was  all.  In  the  first  softening  in 
fluence  of  her  regret  for  the  good  old  man,  it 
struck  Fanny  as  an  evil  omen,  this  bequeathing 
her  the  annuity  in  addition  to  those  thousands ; 
as  if  the  time  were  to  come  when  she  might  be 
forced  to  depend  upon  it.  But  she  soon  forgot 
the  fancy.  Indeed,  Besson  once  buried,  she 
seemed  to  grow  harder  and  more  reckless  than 
ever.  One  thing  she  did,  unknown  to  any  body 
but  Alleyne ;  she  made  over  the  annuity  for  the 
use  of  the  Tortoise,  in  a  way  which  would  keep 
it  always  safe  from  St.  Simon's  clutches.  She 
could  still  show  kind  and  thoughtful  where  that 
helpless  creature  was  concerned. 

The  ordinary  tide  of  life  swept  quickly  back. 
It  would  not  have  been  reasonable  that  the 
merciful  release  should  cause  any  special  change 
in  the  plans  for  the  wedding ;  besides  which, 
Besson  had  specially  enjoined  it  upon  Fanny. 

"I  shall  be  happy,"  he  had  said  over  and 
over ;  "  do  you  be  happy  too.  The  dull  clay  ly 
ing  in  the  grave  will  not  be  me :  cover  it  up,  and 
let  it  lie." 

Very  few  people  among  the  St.  Simon  circle 
knew  any  thing  whatever  about  Besson ;  only 
out  of  the  fact  of  his  death  rose  a  report  that 
some  distant  relative  in  America  or  Zanzibar — 
no  matter  where — had  left  Fanny  a  grand  fort 
une,  and  she  was  envied  mdre  than  ever. 

Harder  and  more  bitter  Fanny  seemed  daily 
to  grow,  and  the  brunt  of  her  evil  feelings  fell 
upon  her  betrothed  and  Helen  Devereux.  The 
blows  were  carefully  disguised,  of  course ;  but 
they  told  invariably.  She  spared  Helen  noth 
ing,  and  the  latter's  promise  to  act  as  one  of  her 
brides-maids  afforded  ample  scope  for  Fanny's 
powers  of  tormenting.  She  insisted  on  seeing 
her  daily ;  there  was  always  something  about 
which  she  needed  advice.  She  could  scarcely 
choose  a  pocket-handkerchief  unaided  by  her 
dear  Miss  Devereux.  She  threw  Helen  and 
Alleyne  constantly  together ;  she  placed  them  in 
every  predicament  which  could  possibly  be  an 
noying  to  both.  As  much  as  she  consulted  Miss 
Devereux  in  regard  to  her  purchases — not  that 
she  heeded  or  required  counsel,  for  her  taste  was 
perfect — did  she  talk  of  her  marriage,  her  hopes, 
her  vague  fears. 

"Do  other  women  feel  so?"  she  asked  one 
morning,  when  she  had  worn  her  victim's  pa 
tience  nearly  threadbare. 

"I  dare  say,"  Helen  replied,  calmly.  "You 
know  we  are  not  a  very  sensible  race  at  the 
best." 

"And  you  are  ready  to  set  me  down  as  the 
silliest  specimen  of  our  sex  that  you  have  ever 
encountered,  riest  ce  pas  ?" 

"I  certainly  never  accused  you  of  being  silly," 
exclaimed  Helen,  goaded  into  energy,  and  put 
ting  more  emphasis  on  the  last  word  than  she 
was  aware. 
Fanny  smiled  behind  a  hand-screen  she  had 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


151 


taken  up.  She  was  calling  on  Miss  Devereux, 
so  that  young  lady  was  quite  at  her  mercy. 

"That  is  rather  admitting  that  you  have  ac 
cused  me  of  other  things,"  said  Fanny,  gayly. 

"Oh  yes,  you  know  I  have,  and  you  know 
what  they  were,  so  we  need  not  go  over  them," 
said  Miss  Devereux,  determined  not  to  be  tor 
mented  further  without  putting  out  her  claws. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Fanny,  "you  scold  me — " 

"Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Helen;  "I  never 
took  that  liberty." 

She  could  endure  a  great  deal,  but  not  being 
put  on  such  terms  of  intimacy  as  that  freedom 
would  imply. 

" — And  you  disapprove  of  me,"  pursued  Fan 
ny,  as  if  the  other  had  not  spoken  ;  "  but  I  think 
you  like  me  a  little.  Don't  tell  me  if  I  deceive 
myself;  I  want  to  believe  you  do." 

So  Miss  Devereux  said  nothing,  though  at 
the  moment  she  was  conscious  that  never  in  her 
life  had  she  so  nearly  detested  any  human  being 
as  this  tantalizing  creature. 

Then,  without  warning,  Fanny  began  to  be 
agreeable.  She  could  have  charmed  her  guard 
ian  angel  into  momentary  forgetfulness  of  her 
sins,  had  he  stood  face  to  face  with  her.  She 
put  herself  aside  ;  she  talked  on  subjects  which 
she  knew  interested  her  companion  ;  she  showed 
such  noble  capabilities,  such  appreciation  of  ev 
ery  thing  good  and  true,  such  admiration  for 
aims  which  she  confessed  she  was  too  weak  to 
make  more  than  theories,  that  Miss  Devereux 
almost  forgot  it  was  Fanny  St.  Simon  who  spoke, 
'  and  listened  entranced.  She  did  this  often  when 
the  mood  was  on  her,  trying  as  hard  to  fascinate 
Helen  as  if  there  had  been  something  to  gain  by 
the  achievement,  never  failing  to  turn  and  sting 
her  desperately  at  the  last.  Each  time  Helen 
said  to  herself  that  she  was  a  fool  to  be  duped. 
The  girl  only  did  it  for  the  express  pleasure  of 
showing  her  power  ;  yet  she  could  seldom  resist 
any  more  than  people  in  general  could  resist  her 
charms,  though  to  like  the  creature  was  beyond 
her.  . 

For  a  full  hour  she  rendered  herself  perfectly 
delightful ;  Miss  Devereux  could  have  listened 
forever.  Suddenly  she  dropped  down  from  her 
height,  sneered  at  her  own  conversation,  and  got 
back  to  the  subject  they  had  left :  her  future,  her 
doubts,  her  certainty  that  Alleyne  loved  her,  and 
a  score  of  similar  topics,  which  caused  Miss  Dev 
ereux  to  wish  herself  deaf,  and  her  visitor  dumb. 

"The  question  is,  do  I  love  him?" she  said. 
"Do  you  know  I  sometimes  ask  myself  that: 
shocking,  is  it  not  ?" 

"It  would  seem  a  little  late,"  returned  Helen, 
carelessly.  "Still  so  many  women  marry,  when 
there  are  sufficient  reasons,  without  any  doubt  as 
to  their  own  feelings,  that  perhaps  your  case  is 
an  ordinary  one." 

"By  sufficient  reasons,  you  mean  money  and 
position,"  said  Fanny,  eying  her  calmly. 


"  The  world  calls  them  such,  at  all  events." 

"And  I  have  had  a  terrible  longing  for  mon 
ey  all  my  life,"  continued  Fanny,  thoughtfully. 
"  I  used  almost  to  hate  you  sometimes  because 
you  had  so  much.  But  now  I  am  rich  ;  I  shall 
be  as  rich  as  you  soon  ;  you  can  not  think  I  am 
marrying  Gregory  Alleyne  for  his  wealth." 

"I  never  said  I  thought  so." 

"No,  I  love  him;  I  should  be  an  ungrateful 
wretch  if  I  did  not.  He  has  shown  me  his  whole 
heart — ah,  what  a  noble  heart,  Helen! — and  it 
is  all  mine." 

"Then  yon  are  a  very  fortunate  woman,"  re 
plied  Miss  Devereux,  steadily. 

"All  mine,"  continued  Fanny,  her  head  droop 
ed,  her  eyes  dreamy,  as  if  she  were  thinking 
aloud.  "He  had  his  youthful  fancy  once;  he 
told  me  of  it  freely." 

She  paused  and  looked  up  now — looked  Hel 
en  full  in  the  face.  SJie  met  in  return  an  unfal 
tering  glance.  Miss  Devereux's  countenance  ex 
pressed  a  polite  but  by  no  means  overpowering 
interest — nothing  more. 

"He  found  in  time  that  it  was  only  a  fancy," 
pursued  Fanny,  "and  for  long  after  that  he  was 
afraid  to  trust  his  own  heart." 

"It  is  fortunate  that  he  made  no  mistake  on 
this  occasion,"  replied  Miss  Devereux,  with  an 
enchantingly  careless  laugh. 

Fanny  absolutely  respected  her ;  a  woman 
who  could  fight  so  gallantly,  and  never  flinch  un 
der  a  thrust  like  her  last,  was  worthy  of  admiration. 

"Yes,  I  am  a  fortunate  woman," she  said,  in 
her  most  musical  tones.  "I  have  won  a  grand 
heart — at  least  I  know  it — that  is  a  good  deal, 
is  it  not?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  Helen  said,  still  in  her  voice  of  po 
lite  interest. 

"And  I  want  rest  and  peace ;  he  promises  me 
these,  and  he  always  keeps  his  word." 

"Now,  I  should  have  thought  change  and 
excitement  would  have  been  more  attractive  to 
you,"  returned  Miss  Devereux. 

"I  fancied  you  knew  me  better.  I  have  not 
had  a  very  happy  life ;  I  think  you  know  that." 

Helen  looked  absolutely  ignorant  of  any 
knowledge  whatever  in  regard  to  Miss  St.  Si 
mon's  bliss  or  suffering  in  the  past,  present,  or 
future. 

"You  did  ?"  persisted  Fanny. 

"Keally,  you  are  a  person  whose  real  feelings 
always  seemed  to  me  difficult  to  get  at, "return 
ed  her  hostess ;  and  now  her  voice  showed  that 
polite  interest  was  growing  an  effort. 

"Perhaps  you  never  cared  to  try, "said  Fan 
ny,  sadly.  "Ah,  well,  I  dare  say  I  was  not  wortli 
the  trouble." 

Miss  Devereux  looked  at  her,  and  felt  more 
puzzled  than  usual  to  decide  whether  the  creat 
ure  was  the  most  consummate  actress  that  ever 
lived,  or  absolutely  meant  what  she  said  at  the 
moment  of  expressing  it. 


152 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"  Oh,  dear  me,  I  wish  I  were  good !  I  wish, 
too,  I  knew  whether  I  am  in  love !"  cried  Fanny, 
laughing  and  sighing  at  once. 

"Your  future  husband  might  scarcely  feel 
complimented  by  the  doubt,  if  it  were  repeated 
to  him." 

"Ah,  but  I  only  say  it  to  you,  and  you  would 
never  repeat  it!" 

The  emphasis  on  the  last  personal  pronoun 
was  so  slight  that  Helen  could  not  tell  if  it  were 
intended  for  an  impertinence ;  at  all  events,  it 
was  one  which  she  could  not  notice. 

"Now,  if  you  only  had  some  past  idyl  with 
which  you  could  compare  your  present  feelings !" 
said  she,  pleasantly. 

This  time  Fanny  raged  internally.  She  had 
always  believed,  though  it  was  a  mistake,  that 
Miss  Devereux  did  more  than  suspect  her  real 
sentiments  for  Talbot  Castlemaine.  But  Fanny 
gave  no  sign.  / 

"  Most  women  of  our  age —  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon !  I  forgot  that  I  have  three  years  the 
cft'sadvantage  of  you.  Well,  most  women  of 
your  age  or  mine  could  do  that,  certainly.  Let 
me  see, "and  she  looked  prettily  contemplative. 
"No;  flirtations  without  end;  half  an  hour's 
earnestness,  perhaps,  when  some  man  has  talked 
or  danced  particularly  well ;  but  nothing  to  found 
comparisons  on  in  so  serious  a  matter  as  this." 

"Then  I  fear  you  will  have  to  leave  to  time 
the  work  of  teaching  you." 

"  I  see  I  shall  get  no  help  from  your  knowl 
edge,"  said  Fanny,  laughing. 

"  I  am  neither  married  nor  engaged,  yon  must 
remember,"  returned  Miss  Devereux,  and  her 
voice  almost  showed  temper  now  :  this  final  in 
solence  was  going  too  far. 

"  Of  human  nature — you  did  not  let  me  fin 
ish,"  drawled  Fanny. 

"Oh,  human  nature  is  a  monster  I  do  not 
profess  to  have  much  knowledge  of,"  said  Miss 
Devereux. 

"What  a  naughty  speech!  sounds  like  one 
of  my  worst,"  cried  Fanny. 

"It  was  not  a  nice  thing  to  say,  I  admit," 
replied  Helen,  with  candor,  willing  to  condemn 
herself,  since  such  censure  must  be  shared  by  her 
guest ;  then  feeling  ashamed,  as  she  always  did 
when  Fanny  goaded  her  into  any  exhibition  re 
sembling  feminine  spite. 

Presently  Mr.  Alleyne  was  announced.  Fanny 
had  begged  him  to  call  for  her :  she  had  a  habit 
of  so  doing  when  she  went  to  visit  Miss  Dever- 
enx ;  and  Alleyne,  never  good  at  inventing  ex 
cuses,  could  seldom  find  any  way  of  avoiding  the 
little  martyrdom. 

Of  course  Helen  received  him  as  she  would  have 
done  any  other  guest,  and  he  behaved  as  a  man 
must  during  a  morning  call — talked  the  trifles 
which  made  up  ordinary  conversation,  and  ac 
quitted  himself  well  enough.  Fanny  insisted  in 
her  own  mind  that  he  was  stiff  and  priggish ;  but 


neither  statement  was  true.  In  spite  of  Miss  St. 
Simon's  clear-sightedness,  it  was  sometimes  diffi 
cult  for  her  to  render  justice  to  the  people  she 
hated. 

Miss  Devereux  had  no  longer  doubts  as  to  the 
motives  which  actuated  the  girl  in  the  display  of 
friendship  so  ostentatiously  paraded  since  their 
return  to  Paris,  and  the  artifices  employed  to 
bring  her  and  Alleyne  so  constantly  together. 
But  she  was  in  the  toils,  and  forced  to  endure 
with  a  smiling  face. 

Even  to  Alleyne  there  came  suspicions  some 
times.  As  the  weeks  went  on,  more  than  once 
Fanny's  conduct  made  him  ask  if  it  was  possible 
that  she  suspected  Miss  Devereux  to  be  the  girl 
who  had  formerly  been  his  betrothed.  He  re 
membered  her  refusal  to  hear  the  story  when  he 
wished  honestly  to  relate  the  whole  truth. 

"Don't  tell  me  her  name,"  she  had  said; 
"don't  let  me  ever  find  out  who  she  was.  I 
should  hate  her." 

Had  she  discovered  ?  Could  she  be  capable 
of  behaving  as  she  did  from  jealousy  or  a  wicked 
desire  to  wound  him?  There  are  men  whose 
vanity  might  have  been  flattered  by  the  first  sup 
position,  but  Alleyne  was  not  one  of  them.  Then, 
too,  she  was  so  altered  that  often  he  found  it  dif 
ficult  to  believe  there  was  any  love  in  her  heart. 
At  other  times  her  manner  changed  completely  ; 
perceiving  the  danger  of  tormenting  him  further, 
she  would  assume  her  most  potent  fascinations. 

"Be  patient  with  me,"  was  her  cry.  "I  am 
not  like  myself.  I  don't  know  what  ails  me.  I 
can't  help  teasing  you,  and  yet  I  can't  bear  to  do 
it ;  don't  be  vexed  with  me.  Once  married  and 
away  from  all  these  odious  people,  I  shall  get  my 
senses  back.  I  have  often  heard  women  say  they 
felt  as  I  do  before  their  wedding ;  but  I  thought 
it  all  nonsense." 

"And  you  are  not  troubled,  not  unhappy, 
Fanny  ?" 

"What  a  question  !  Should  I  be  here  beside 
you  if  I  were  either  one  or  the  other?  You 
know  I  am  too  impulsive  and  ill-regulated  to  act 
a  part.  And  why  should  I  do  it  ?  What  mo 
tive  could  I  have  strong  enough  to  make  me  at 
tempt  it  ?  For  shame,  Gregory !" 

"I  did  not  dream  of  accusing  you  of  any  thing 
of  the  sort,  Fanny ;  I  only  feared  that  you  were 
not  happy." 

' '  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter — 
nothing,  in  reality.  I'm  an  idiot ;  I  told  you  so 
long  ago  ;  you  will  believe  it  now.  I'm  afraid, 
I  can  not  tell  of  what ;  you— myself— every  thing 
—nothing.  Love  me,  Gregory— only  love  me, 
and  be  patient !  Go  down  on  your  knees,  and 
swear  that  you  love  me." 

While  under  the  immediate  charm  of  her  pres 
ence,  it  was  not  difficult  to  convince  himself  that 
he  felt  all  the  protestations  she  insisted  upon  hear 
ing  ;  but  perhaps  at  that  instant  she  would  fling 
Helen  Devereux's  name  into  the  talk,  and  over- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


153 


whelm  him  with  a  sense  of  deceit  and  abasement. 
His  words  should  be  true ;  he  would  give  her 
his  whole  heart.  He  would  not  show  weak  and 
miserable  enough  to  let  the  ghosts  of  a  dead 
dream — long  since  dead — torment  him  thus.  He 
said  this  over  and  over,  and  struggled  manfully. 
Not  a  struggle  did  Fanny  miss  ;  there  was  not  a 
pang  she  failed  to  comprehend,  and  she  spared 
him  nothing.  He  ceased  to  look  forward  ;  that 
future  upon  which  Be  had  built  so  confidently 
during  the  first  months  of  their  engagement 
looked  dim  and  insecure  now.  After  all  his 
philosophy,  his  experience,  the  ability  to  reason 
and  argue  down  his  fancy  upon  which  he  had 
prided  himself,  he  had  chosen  under  the  influence 
of  an  inexplicable  spell,  and  was  going  forth  into 
new  paths  with  as  little  real  reflection  as  a  boy 
could  have  displayed  —  paths  which  appeared 
tortuous  and  dangerous,  as  the  halo  which  had 
hidden  their  course  wore  off,  and  they  stretched 
ominously  out  in  the  cold  light  of  reality. 

And  the  days  got  by. 

St.  Simon's  nervous  anxiety  increased  ;  he  hur 
ried  on  the  preparations  for  the  wedding,  and 
went  into  furies  because  the  merest  trifles  were 
not  in  readiness  long  before  they  could  be  re 
quired.  At  one  moment  he  upbraided  Fanny, 
and  fawned  before  her  the  next.  He  drank  deep 
ly,  too,  though  none  of  their  respectable  acquaint 
ances  knew  this ;  but  Fanny  knew  it,  and  shud 
dered  at  so  signal  a  proof  of  his  having  lost  his 
head. 

His  conduct  rendered  her  nearly  as  nervous  as 
he  was  himself.  She  suspected  all  manner  of 
horrible  things,  but  could  find  no  sufficient  proofs 
to  turn  her  suspicion  in  any  one  quarter.  His 
papers  and  correspondence  were  kept  so  secure 
ly  locked  that  she  could  not  get  a  peep  at  them 
to  discover  whether  the  trouble  was  in  'regard  to 
the  mine,  or  merely  some  money  crisis  which 
he  had  brought  on  by  his  mad  extravagance  and 
dissipated  habits. 

She  grew  as  eager  as  he  for  the  wedding-day, 
loathing  the  thought  the  more  because  she  was 
eager.  But  she  longed  for' the  moment  which 
should  secure  her  future.  If  danger  were  near 
— if  the  tempest  should  burst  before  her  safety 
was  placed  beyond  a  possibility !  Then  she  tried 
to  re-assure  herself  by  arguments  which  con 
cerned  Alleyne.  No  matter  what  might  come 
out  in  regard  to  St.  Simon,  Alleyne  would  not 
visit  the  fault  upon  her ;  he  was  too  honorable, 
too  just.  Then,  in  the  midst  of  her  efforts  to 
be  at  rest,  she  would  laugh  in  scorn  of  her  own 
sophistries.  The  idea  of  any  body  weak  enough 
to  have  scruples !  Judging  human  nature  by 
her  own  soul,  by  St.  Simon,  by  so  many  who 
had  borne  a  part  in  her  life,  she  shuddered  lest 
her  old  skepticism  should  be  truth,  after  all ;  en 
deavored  to  believe  those  creeds  false,  yet  won 
dered  still  at  her  own  folly  in  essaying  to  doubt 
them. 


She  had  never  yet  known  intimately  a  human 
creature  who  would  not  forget  honor  and  justice 
under  sufficiently  strong  inducements,  always 
except  Roland  Spencer;  but  he  was  not  like 
1  most  mortals ;  he  was  something  so  much  better 
j  and  higher  than  other  men  that  ordinary  rules 
did  not  apply  to  him.  Alleyne  was  a  proud 
j  man — loved  the  world's  respect.  If  St.  Simon 
were  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  Alleyne 
should  draw  back  from  her — where  was  she 
then  ?  Of  real,  true  pride,  which,  under  such 
circumstances  as  her  fancy  depicted,  would  cause 
her  betrothed  husband  to  stand  more  closely  by 
her,  Fanny's  experience  could  tell  her  so  little 
that  she  scarcely  dwelt  upon  the  hope,  even  while 
offering  it  to  her  own  acceptance.  She  hated  the 
fate  she  had  chosen,  abhorred  the  world  of  de 
cency  and  greatness  and  monotony  in  which  her 
future  would  be  cast ;  but  she  could  not  give  it 
up ;  the  bare  dread  of  losing  its  splendid  dull 
ness  showed  her  that. 

St.  Simon  was  right ;  she  had  been  mad  to 
defer  her  marriage  so  long.  If  she  had  only 
listened  to  his  counsels,  yielded  to  Alleyne's 
wishes,  she  might  have  been  beyond  the  reach 
of  danger.  How  the  days  dragged !  Would  the 
moment  of  safety  never  come  ? 

Day  by  day  these  fears  and  forebodings  in 
creased  in  strength.  Each  morning  she  saw 
St.  Simon's  face  a  little  mdre  haggard,  a  little 
more  anxious,  and  trembled  lest  ere  the  sun  set 
the  blow  should  fall.  She  ceased  to  worry  him 
with  questions :  he  had  determined  this  time  to 
give  no  confidence  even  to  her ;  and  it  was  use 
less  to  torment  and  excite  his  insane  temper.  It 
was  only  to  her  that  these  changes  were  visible ; 
before  others  he  was  gay,  insouciant  as  ever,  and 
not  a  doubt  seemed  to  have  arisen  in  regard  to 
him  or  his  schemes. 

As  the  time  passed  Fanny  had  something 
harder  than  these  fears  to  endure — something 
more  galling  than  the  dullness  of  that  future 
against  which  she  had  so  often  girded.  The 
idea  of  being  given  body  and  soul  to  a  man 
whose  very  touch  had  come  to  cause  her  a  shiv 
er  of  disgust,  the  sound  of  whose  step  was  some- 
|  times  enough  to  make  her  flesh  creep  and  her 
!  blood  turn  to  ice — she  had  this  to  hear.  But 
there  was  a  harder  struggle  still ;  she  was  forced 
constantly  to  fight  against  her  own  heart ;  to  bat 
tle  down  that  wild,  mad  love,  which  seemed  only 
to  increase  in  intensity  with  every  barrier  she 
built  above  it. 

She  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep  ;  Castlemaine's 
image  haunted  her  day  and  night.  She  went 
over  and  over  each  detail  of  their  acquaintance, 
from  its  earliest  moment  up  to  that  last  agonized 
parting.  She  lived  on  the  memory  of  his  words 
and  smiles.  The  glory  of  his  eyes  burned  into 
her  soul,  and  woke  a  fever  which  seemed  to 
parch  its  inmost  depths.  Only  to  see  him 
again,  to  gaze  into  his  face,  to  catch  one  tone 


154 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


of  his  voice !  Oh,  to  fling  prudence  and  pro 
priety  to  the  winds,  and  hear  him  say  once  more 
that  he  loved  her— just  once  more ! 

Why,  she  would  like  to  kill  herself  on  her 
wedding-day;  to  have  them  come  in  and  find 
her  dressed  in  her  bridal  robes  —  stark,  stiff! 
Ah,  she  was  a  fool  —  a  driveling,  sentimental 
idiot— as  vacuous  as  the  girls  she  had  sneered 
at  in  real  life  and  in  plays !  Besides,  if  she  were 
to  die,  by  some  means  Alleyne  and  Helen  Dever- 
eux  would  arrive  at  an  explanation,  and  her  tort 
ure  in  the  next  world  would  be  to  look  back  upon 
this  earth  and  watch  their  happiness. 

See  that  girl  happy  who  had  robbed  her  of  all 
which  made  the  difference  between  heaven  and 
hell?  Never!  If  existence  grew  a  thousand 
times  more  horrible  torture  than  now,  she  would 
cling  to  it  to  prevent  that  possibility.  It  was  Hel 
en  .Devereux  who  had  put  her  in  the  strait  where 
she  groveled,  whether  with  intention  or  not  was 
no  matter ;  she  had  done  it,  and  deserved  pun 
ishment,  the  worst  that  could  be  inflicted,  though 
the  dealing  it  hurt  herself  as  much  as  it  could  her 
enemy.  If  that  woman  had  not  paltered  with 
Talbot  Castlemaine,  kept  him  dangling  in  the 
wake  of  her  golden  progress,  Talbot  would  never 
have  seen  Marian.  Only  a  few  weeks  later,  and 
she  could  have  called  him  back  to  her  heart — 
such  a  narrow  slip  between  herself  and  bliss ! 
Helen  Devereux  had  wrought  all  this  misery — 
she  alone ;  and  there  was  so  little  to  be  done  to 
punish  her.  Taking  away  the  man  the  odious 
woman  loved  was  not  enough — not  nearly  enough. 

Oh!  wait  until  after  the  marriage;  wait  till 
the  settlements  Alleyne  was  securing  her  would 
leave  her  rich,  whatever  happened !  Then  let 
Helen  Devereux  be  on  her  guard !  Why,  it 
would  be  so  easy  then  to  work  her  irrevocable 
ruin  and  disgrace ;  yes,  and  to  this  man,  whom 
she  should  hate  far  more  bitterly  than  now  when 
once  bound  to  him — forced  to  accept  his  com 
panionship — to  live  as  his  wife — 

Always  when  she  reached  this  point,  Fanny 
broke  off  her  reflections  to  rage  up  and  down 
like  a  lunatic,  sometimes  to  fling  herself  on  the 
floor,  and  beat  her  head  in  wrath  and  anguish. 
But  the  revenge  —  she  never  failed  when  the 
paroxysm  passed  to  bring  herself  back  to  a  sem 
blance  of  reason  by  dwelling  upon  that.  They 
were  going  to  America  in  the  spring;  Helen 
Devereux  was  going  there  too.  Scandal,  divorce, 
all  the  horrors  which  would  prove  worse  than 
death  to  those  two,  might  easily  be  brought 
about.  She  would  stop  at  nothing— she  cared 
for  nothing !  She  was  down  in  hell  now ;  what 
matter  if  she  found  new  and  darker  depths? 
Besides,  she  need  not  lose  caste ;  she  would  ap 
pear  a  suffering  martyr;  she  would  have  the 
whole  world  on  her  side — that  of  the  injured, 
deceived  wife.  If  this  were  not  so,  what  should 
she  care  ?  She  had  cared  for  but  one  thing  in 
all  her  life — Castlemaine's  love.  She  had  been 


marble,  ice — no  heart  tor  any  human  being — in 
capable  of  love  or  passion  as  a  statue,  except 
where  this  man  was  concerned — her  Talbot,  her 
lost  Talbot ! 

And  this  Devereux  woman  had  deprived  her 
of  him !  Her  wedding-day  was  near !  She  was 
to  belong  to  another,  and  to  know  that  beyond 
the  dreary  distance  which  separated  them  Tal 
bot 's  heart  yearned  toward  her;  that  Talbot, 
like  herself,  would  joyfully  have  accepted  an 
eternity  of  torture  just  to  be  happy  here. 

Night  after  night  fighting  with  her  devils — 
day  after  day  busy  with  the  petty  details  of  ex 
istence — her  marriage  preparations  going  on — 
people  always  about  her— -fetes  in  her  honor — 
guests  at  the  house— a  constant  whirl  and  ex 
citement,  till  living  was  more  like  some  horrible 
nightmare  than  a  reality.  And  under  all  and 
beyond  all,  those  growing  fears  each  time  she 
looked  in  St.  Simon's  face.  Now,  it  was  not  so 
much  the  loss  of  her  grandeur  she  dreaded  as  of 
her  revenge — the  bitter,  ruthless  retribution  she 
was  to  work  on  the  head  of  the  woman  who  had 
thwarted  her  destiny,  and  the  man  through  whom 
the  vengeance  was  to  be  wrought. 

And  never  any  one  to  whom  she  could  speak 
a  word  that  was  in  her  mind,  except  to  Koland 
Spencer,  and  of  course  only  vaguely  to  him,  just 
moaning  out  her  misery  and  despair ;  but  even 
this  was  a  relief. 

Roland's  heart  ached  and  yearned  with  pity. 
He  actually  believed  that  at  this  season  her  brain 
turned  somewhat ;  that  she  was  in  reality  a  little 
mad.  He  will  hold  to  this  credence  as  long  as 
he  lives,  and  be  thankful  that  he  can. 

And  at  last  only  ten  days  remained  to  bridge 
over — ten  days,  and  she  would  be  Gregory  Al- 
leyne's  wife. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

ONLY   TEN  DATS. 

ALTHOUGH  taking  place  rather  early  in  the 
season,  Miss  St.  Simon's  wedding  promised  to 
be  a  very  brilliant  affair.  It  was  known  among 
the  American  colony  that  titles  without  stint 
were  expected,  even  to  royal  ones,  provided  roy 
alty  had  its  rights  in  this  leveling  century ;  so 
the  American  colony,  with  that  republican  spirit 
which  characterizes  it,  felt  that  an  invitation  to 
the  ceremony  and  the  breakfast  was  a  thing  to 
have. 

The  presents  which  poured  in  were  enough  to 
have  turned  the  head  of  an  ordinary  girl,  but 
they  did  not  afford  Fanny  the  satisfaction  which 
she  had  believed  she  should  derive  therefrom. 
Helen  Devereux's  gifts  were  among  the  earliest 
and  most  elegant.  Naturally  nothing  less  than 
diamonds  could  be  looked  for  from  a  bridegroom 
of  Alleyne's  wealth,  and  they  were  forthcoming — 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


155 


diamonds  which  caused  gossip  and  envy  enough. 
I  think  Alleyne's  conscience  could  scarcely  have 
been  at  ease  about  that  purchase,  considering 
his  peculiar  ideas.  The  money  sunk  in  those 
glittering  stones  might  have  served  for  a  king's 
ransom,  as  the  old  novels  were  fond  of  saving; 
or,  better  yet,  founded  another  orphan  asylum, 
erected  the  buildings,  and  put  it  in  working  or 
der  for  years  to  come. 

But  Fanny  had  the  diamonds,  and  the  only 
comfort  she  got  out  of  them  was  the  thought, 
"  They  ought  to  be  handsome ;  this  is  what  I  am 
selling  myself  for." 

Miss  Devereux  was  to  be  chief  brides-maid : 
such  important  nuptials  required  several  others, 
of  course.  Alleyne  had  supposed  that  Spencer 
would  serve  as  one  of  his  aids,  but  Fanny  spared 
the  young  man  the  pain  even  of  the  request. 

"No,  we  must  not  ask  him,"  she  said; 
"there's  something  very  sad  connected  in  his 
mind  with  acting  as  groomsman — I  don't  just 
know  the  story ;  he  was  to  serve  his  dearest 
friend  in  that  way  once,  and  the  poor  fellow  was 
killed  the  very  morning  of  his  marriage." 

The  tale  had  a  foundation  of  truth,  as  Fanny's 
falsehoods  usually  had — not  much  this  time ;  all 
she  cared  for  was  to  save  Roland  annoyance. 
Nothing  but  her  earnest  supplications  had  retain 
ed  .him  in  Paris.  He  could  not  refuse  her 
prayers,  however,  and  hid  what  he  suffered  gal 
lantly  enough. 

"  I  have  no  friend  but  yon,"  she  said,  piteous- 
ly  ;  "  don't  desert  me,  Roland !  There  is  nobody 
else  to  whom  I  can  open  my  lips.  Promise  me 
to  stay.  I  shall  certainly  go  mad  if  you  do  not. " 

She  meant  every  word,  and  after  that  Roland 
could  not  think  of  going,  whatever  personal  cost 
he  paid  for  yielding  to  her  wishes.  As  the  time 
went  on,  and  he  perceived  more  clearly  the  state 
of  mind  she  was  in,  he  became  glad  he  had  con 
quered  his  selfish  dread,  and  remained.  The 
sight  of  her  suffering  rendered  him  positively 
morbid ;  he  got  to  have  an  absurd  feeling  that 
some  danger  was  near — some  horrible  crisis  in 
which  she  would  need  his  help,  when  in  all  the 
world  there  would  be  no  one  but  himself  to  stand 
between  her  and  utter  desolation.  He  marveled 
at  his  foolishness,  but  he  could  not  drive  away 
the  presentiment.  He  watched  the  days  go  al 
most  as  eagerly  as  St.  Simon,  putting  his  own 
pain  completely  aside  in  solicitude  for  her. 

And  now  only  ten  more  days  hung  between 
them  and  that  morning — only  ten. 

The  Tortoise  had  suddenly  roused  up  to  a  con 
sciousness  that  she  was  soon  to  lose  Fanny,  and 
she  sat  blubbering  softly  in  her  salon,  while  Fan 
ny  tried  to  console  her  and  laugh  her  out  of  lam 
entations  which  were  becoming  as  dreary  as  those 
of  Jeremiah. 

Something  in  regard  to  her  duties  obliged  Miss 
Devereux  to  come  to  the  house  this  morning. 
She  was  shown  directly  up  to  the  Tortoise's  room, 


and  found  Fanny  with  her  arms  about  the  open- 
mouthed  animal,  looking  more  tender  and  ear 
nest  than  the  visitor  could  have  believed  her  capa 
ble  of  doing.  Then  Fanny  explained  what  was 
the  matter,  and  wiped  away  a  few  real  tears  from 
her  eyes,  while  the  Tortoise  confided  her  nose  to 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  played  a  sort  of 
dirge  with  such  energy  that  the  end  of  her  pro 
boscis  gleamed  red  and  injured  for  an  hour  after 
ward. 

"Confess  you  are  surprised  at  T.'s  caring  so 
much,"  said  Fanny,  laughing ;  for  with  her  usual 
skill  she  read  Miss  Devereux's  thoughts  as  plain 
ly  as  if  they  had  been  spoken. 

"It  is  natural — " 

"Ah !  but  you  never  believed  I  was  good  to 
her ;  you  rather  thought  it  a  pretense,"  said  Fan 
ny.  "  But  it  is  odd  how  patient  I  can  be  with 
inoffensive  people  that  nobody  else  can  endure." 

The  Tortoise  gave  a  final  toot  in  her  bugle  per 
formance,  as  if  in  confirmation  of  the  words. 

"Now,  T.,"  pursued  Fanny,  "  you  shall  have 
some  wine  and  biscuits,  and  lie  down.  Miss 
Devereux  and  I  must  go  out." 

The  Tortoise  was  amenable  as  usual  to  the  of 
fer  of  something  to  eat,  and  they  left  her  quite 
cheerful,  but  so  hopelessly  daubed  with  confitures 
she  had  begged  Fanny  to  add  to  her  repast,  that 
it  was  fortunate  St.  Simon  did  not  chance  to  ap 
pear;  he  certainly  would  have  been  unable  to  re 
sist  giving  her  a  sly  pinch. 

Later  in  the  day  Miss  Devereux  was  back  at 
the  house.  Fanny  insisted  on  her  returning. 
Miss  Devereux  had  ceased  to  combat ;  she  went 
and  came  as  her  tormentor  bade,  though  not  or 
dinarily  a  person  given  to  accept  martyrdom  with 
out  a  struggle.  But  whenever  she  refused  to 
accede  to  Fanny's  requests,  that  young  woman 
managed  to  make  her  feel  that  she  suspected  her 
of  hurt  vanity,  hurt  pride,  a  sore  heart,  and  oth 
er  trifling  inconveniences  which  Miss  Devereux 
could  not  support  the  suspicion  of;  so  Fanny  al 
ways  had  her  way.  Of  late  Miss  Devereux  told 
herself  that  the  term  of  annoyance  was  so  nearly 
over,  it  was  not  worth  while  to  hesitate  at  any 
thing.  She  bore  Fanny's  confidences,  Fanny's 
sneers  —  harder  yet,  Fanny's  protestations  of 
friendship — and  never  flinched.  She  submitted 
to  Gregory  Alleyne's  society  whenever  it  was  the 
will  of  the  bride  elect  that  she  should  do  so.  She 
endured  St.  Simon's  compliments  and  soft  words, 
and  found  herself  affichte  publicly  with  both  niece 
and  uncle  in  a  manner  which  a  few  months  pre 
vious  she  would  have  believed  could  never  hap 
pen.  But  it  would  soon  be  over  now ;  ten  days 
more,  and  she  should  have  her  freedom.  It 
seemed  a  little  odd  that  she  should  look  forward 
with  eagerness  to  Gregory  Alleyne's  wedding- 
day.  But  when  she  reached  that  thought  sho 
called  herself  more  hard  names  than  Fanny  had 
ever  secretly  bestowed  upon  her,  and  soon  waxed 
so  calm  and  cold  that  she  was  able  to  assure  her 


156 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


conscience  she  meant  nothing  whatever  by  the  re 
mark  ;  at  least,  nothing  beyond  that  it  was  odd 
she  should  have  any  interest  or  share  in  the  mat 
ter  of  his  marriage. 

While  the  two  girls  were  indulging  in  the  now 
adays  indispensable  five-o'clock  cup  of  tea,  Mrs. 
Pattaker  appeared,  dragging  Roland  Spencer  in 
her  wake.  She  had  captured  that  unfortunate 
youth  an  hour  before  on  the  Champs  £lyse'es, 
having  descended  from  her  carriage  for  a  short 
promenade.  Not  only  had  she  turned  one  of 
the  jubsy  men  adrift,  and  taken  Roland's  arm, 
but  she  had  forced  him  to  pay  a  visit  to  certain 
compatriots  whom  he  detested;  and,  harboring 
the  suspicion  that  he  meant,  on  leaving  her,  to 
go  to  the  St.  Simons',  had  brought  him  herself. 
Roland  looked  so  utterly  miserable  and  fagged 
that  neither  Miss  Devereux  nor  Fanny  could  re 
sist  a  smile.  They  gave  him  some  tea  and  con 
doled  with  him  in  whispers,  while  Mrs.  Pattaker 
listened  amiably  to  St.  Simon's  flatteries.  That 
gentleman  had  encountered  her  at  the  door,  and 
came  in,  smiling  and  gracious,  in  her  company. 
The  last  time  Fanny  had  seen  him — a  few  hours 
previous — he  was  raving  like  a  Bedlamite,  and 
breaking  all  the  breakable  articles  on  his  writing- 
table,  because  some  letter  he  expected  had  not 
arrived,  or  some  person  with  whom  he  had  an 
appointment  had  proved  unpunctual;  she  did 
not  wait  to  discover  which. 

After  a  little,  Gregory  Alleyne  sauntered  in 
with  his  quiet,  grave  manner,  which  Fanny 
called  stiff  and  priggish,  but  which  Miss  Dev 
ereux  thought  weary  and  melancholy,  and  di 
rectly  after  informed  her  conscience  that  she 
did  not  think  about  it.  That  conscience  of  hers 
had  grown  troublesome  lately ;  not  so  pleasant 
a  confidante  as  Sathanas,  with  his  sharp  eyes  and 
enameled  tail,  whom  she  used  to  consult  merrily. 
But  she  had  put  Sathanas  by  long  since ;  some 
how,  he  always  reminded  her  of  the  days  when 
she  and  Marian  had  been  so  quietly  happy  in  the 
Devonshire  cottage,  and  she  could  never  bear  the 
sight  of  him  after  poor  Marian's  sky  began  to  pale. 

Two  or  three  other  people  strolled  in,  and 
there  were  laughter  and  idle  talk,  and  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  did  long  sentences,  and  glided  into  and  out 
of  the  family  attitude,  and  was  gracious  and  pat 
ronizing  to  each  person  in  turn,  and  fooled  by 
St.  Simon  to  the  top  of  her  bent.  Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  hated  flattery;  but  due  appreciation  of 
her  transcendent  merits  was  not  that,  and  this 
St.  Simon  told  her  he  had. 

Presently  the  great  lady  took  herself  off,  but 
Roland  managed  to  escape  her  clutches.  When 
she  was  gone  they  really  had  a  jolly  hour.  St. 
Simon  was  in  wonderful  spirits ;  his  bonmots  and 
witticisms  kept  even  grave  Gregory  Alleyne  in 
fits  of  laughter.  He  imitated  Mrs.  Pattaker, 
he  had  a  new  story  at  some  mutual  acquaint 
ance's  expense,  and  he  looked  so  young  and 
handsome,  that  Fanny,  well  as  she  knew  him, 


fairly  wondered  if  it  could  be  the  same  face  she 
had  seen  so  short  a  time  before  pale  and  rigid 
with  passion  and  trouble.  "We  really  are  a 
wonderful  pair,"  she  thought.  "We  must  have 
been  bom  in  a  wrong  century,  that  is  all.  Now, 
put  St.  Simon  a  hundred  years  or  so  back — ti 
tled,  rich — bless  me !  he'd  have  beaten  the  wi 
liest  politician  or  courtier  Louis  XIV.  owned. 
I'd  not  have  done  badly  myself;  but  when  one 
is  bora  out  of  time,  and  can  find  no  great  aims, 
one  must  take  the  little  ones.  Heigh-ho !  how 
stiff  Alleyne  looks!  and  that  Devereux,  with 
her  head  up  as  if  she  were  a  queen ;  and  all 
the  others  so  tiresome !  How  I  hate  every  body 
— except  my  poor  Roland !" 

Then  she  began  to  talk  pleasantly;  to  say 
sweet  things  to  Helen  Devereux,  to  laugh  nt 
Alleyne,  pet  Roland,  and  grew  almost  as  gay 
as  St.  Simon. 

Miss  Devereux's  carriage  was  announced ;  the 
rest  rose,  and  soon  nobody  was  left  except  her 
betrothed.  Fanny's  eyes  implored  Roland  to  re 
main,  but  he  had  an  engagement,  and,  besides,  he 
felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  make  himself  dis 
agreeable  to  Alleyne.  So  St.  Simon  rose  also, 
and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Of  course  you  two  will  miss  me  dreadfully," 
he  said;  "  but  I  must  be  off.  I  promised  De  Sard 
to  look  in  at  the  club." 

He  stood  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  talking  gny- 
ly,  and  then  went  out  and  left  the  pair  alone. 

"  It  is  wonderful  to  see  a  man  no  longer  young 
possess  such  spirits,"  Alleyne  observed.  "Suc 
cess  agrees  with  St.  Simon." 

"  I  dare  say ;  with  most  people.  I  fancy,"  an 
swered  Fanny. 

Then  she  began  to  wonder  how  long  he  meant 
to  stop,  and  to  think  what  it  would  be  to  sit  op 
posite  his  grave  face  day  after  day,  and  have  no 
excuse  for  sending  him  off. 

St.  Simon  passed  down  into  his  cabinet  before 
leaving  the  house.  He  opened  an  armoire,  took 
out  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  drank  a  couple  of  glasses 
to  sustain  his  spirits,  which  flagged  after  his  late 
efforts.  Then  he  lighted  a  cigar,  and  began  to 
feel  comfortable,  almost  more  so  than  he  had 
felt  for  days.  He  glanced  out  of  the  window ; 
his  trap  was  waiting,  so  faultless  in  its  get-up, 
from  the  dark  chocolate  -  colored  brougham  to 
the  magnificent  chestnut  horse  and  tiny  tiger, 
that  the  whole  affair  was  the  envy  of  half  his 
acquaintances.  He  would  go  to  the  club,  and 
indulge  in  a  quiet  rubber ;  really  he  was  in  the 
mood  for  society.  Who  knew?  perhaps  these 
fiendish  fears  which 'had  haunted  him  for  weeks 
might  prove  vain.  He  had  gone  through  so 
much,  tided  over  so  many  dangerous  currents ; 
his  star  might  not  have  deserted  him,  after  all. 
Like  most  heathens,  St.  Simon  was  a  fatalist, 
and  worshiped  his  Dagon  with  blind  devotion. 

He  turned  from  the  window  to  take  up  his 
hat.  Just  then  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


157 


"Come  in,"  St.  Simon  said,  without  looking 
round.  He  was  pinning  a  rose  that  he  had  beg 
ged  Miss  Devereux  to  choose  from  one  of  Fan 
ny's  bouquets  into  his  button-hole,  puffing  out  a 
cloud  of  pale  smoke  from  his  fragrant  Havana 
as  he  did  so. 

"A  telegram  for  monsieur." 

St.  Simon  did  not  move,  did  not  pause  in  his 
employment,  though  the  long  white  fingers  busy 
with  the  rose  seemed  cold  and  dead,  as  if  a  sud 
den  paralysis  had  stricken  him. 

It  was  the  pattern  servant  who  entered,  carry 
ing  in  his  hand  a  silver  salver,  and  on  the  salver 
the  telegram.  If  it  had  been  a  sentence  of  death 
for  high  treason  the  pattern  servant  looked  dig 
nified  enough  for  the  bearer,  and  he  would  have 
brought  it  with  the  same  air  of  delicate  attention. 
He  could  see  St.  Simon's  profile,  and  St.  Simon 
could  see  him ;  but  there  was  no  curiosity  in  the 
pattern  man's  face.  Letters  and  telegrams  had 
grown  a  drug  since  he  entered  his  present  mas 
ter's  service,  though,  like  most  people  of  our 
century,  he  had  a  respect  for  the  talent  which 
could  turn  itself  into  money.  His  admiration 
for  St.  Simon  was  extreme,  and  he  had  often 
debated  with  himself  the  possibility  of  putting 
some  of  his  past  earnings — goodly  sums,  for  the 
pattern  man  had  served  princes  and  powers  in  his 
day — into  that  wonderful  mine  where  so  many 
others  were  insane  to  sink  their  hopes. 

St.  Simon  was  too  much  occupied  between  the 
rose  and  his  cigar  to  do  more  than  nod.  The 
pattern  man  deposited  the  salver  on  a  table  and 
departed.  Not  for  worlds  would  he  have  lifted 
the  paper ;  it  must  appear  to  have  arrived  on  the 
silver  tray,  and  never  been  touched  by  his  or  oth 
er  hands  before  reaching  its  destination. 

St.  Simon  caught  himself  smiling  at  the  whole 
performance,  model  bow  and  all,  as  he  watch 
ed  with  glazed  eyes,  while  his  cold  fingers  still 
played  about  the  rose-bud.  Then  the  man  was 
gone,  the  door  closed ;  St.  Simon  was  alone. 

He  sat  by  the  table  staring  at  the  glittering 
salver  and  its  contents — an  ocean  telegram,  he 
knew,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  color  of  the  envel 
ope.  The  next  thing  he  was  distinctly  conscious 
of,  he  held  the  telegram  in  his  hand — holding  it 
tight,  perhaps  trying  to  bring  some  sensation  to 
his  icy  fingers.  The  hand  did  not  tremble ;  it 
looked  as  it  felt,  dead  and  cold,  and  St.  Simon's 
face  was  ghastly. 

The  envelope  was  open  ;  had  he  done  it  ?  He 
could  not  remember ;  it  seemed  a  long  while  that 
he  had  sat  staring  at  it.  The  sheet  of  paper  lay 
spread  on  the  table ;  it  did  not  seem  that  he  had 
unfolded  it. 

"  Your  friend  Marquis  is  dead." 

Only  this— just  the  one  line.  St.  Simon  glared 
at  the  page  with  eyes  which  had  lost  all  human 
expression ;  glared  at  it  with  a  face  grown  an 
awful  yellowish  white,  like  the  face  of  a  three 
days'  corpse. 


The  telegram  had  been  sent  from  Nevada, 
sent  by  the  agent  at  the  mines  to  a  trusty  person, 
in  New  York.  Ee-sent  from  New  York  to  St. 
Simon.  A  telegram  which  the  whole  board  of 
directors  in  that  city,  and  all  the  share-holders  in 
the  mine  might  have  read  had  they  been  so  dis 
posed,  and  gained  no  perception  that  it  possessed 
an  interest  for  them. 

Yet  this  is  what  it  meant.  The  mine  had  fail 
ed!  As  St.  Simon  had  always  presaged  from 
the  papers  Besson's  son  left,  the  drift  had  proved 
delusive — broken  off  short. 

A  few  days  longer  the  news  might  be  kept  a 
secret  even  from  the  company  in  America ;  a 
few  days,  in  which  St.  Simon  must  take  meas 
ures  to  save  himself,  for  this  was  ruin  indeed. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
OUT  OF  ALADDIN'S  PALACE. 

THREE  days  of  the  ten  were  gone ;  only  a  week 
remained  before  Fanny  St.  Simon's  wedding. 

Fanny  had  not  seen  her  uncle  since  the  previ 
ous  morning ;  he  had  been  in  the  house  occasion 
ally,  she  knew,  and  she  had  several  times  sent 
asking  to  speak  with  him.  He  promised  on  the 
reception  of  each  message  to  come  to  her,  but 
he  had  not  done  it ;  had  slipped  away  again  be 
fore  she  was  aware  of  his  departure. 

This  was  a  black,  stormy  day ;  Fanny  neither 
went  out  nor  received  visitors.  There  were  to 
be  guests  at  dinner  to-night,  and  their  presence 
would  force  St.  Simon  within  her  reach  ;  it  was 
only  that  thought  kept  Fanny  from  wishing  some 
horrible  fate  upon  the  unfortunate  invited  which 
might  keep  them  one  and  all  at  home. 

Eather  early  in  the  morning  came  a  note  and 
a  lovely  bouquet  from  Alleyne,  the  bouquet  clasp 
ed  by  a  costly  bracelet,  and  covered  with  a  deli 
cate  lace  handkerchief  as  nearly  resembling  the 
perfection  of  a  cobweb  as  clumsy  human  ingenu 
ity  can  attain.  Alleyne  was  going  to  Fontame- 
bleau,  as  had  been  agreed  between  him  and  his 
betrothed.  He  wanted  to  bo  certain  that  the  lit 
tle  villa  where  they  were  to, spend  a  few  weeks 
before  starting  for  Italy  was  in  complete  readi 
ness. 

He  wrote  that  he  should  be  unable  to  return 
until  evening ;  probably  not  till  nine,  as  he  had 
business  which  would  prevent  his  leaving  Paris 
at  the  hour  he  had  proposed.  This  would  make 
him  somewhat  late  for  the  dinner,  so  ho  should 
not  come  to  the  house  till  that  ceremony  was 
over.  He  would  join  the  additional  guests  in 
vited  for  the  little  soiree  which  was  to  follow  the 
feast. 

Altogether  it  was  a  pleasant,  cheerful,  affec 
tionate  note.  Funny  read  it  in  bed,  then  care 
fully  folded  the  paper,  and  tore  it  with  great  pre 
cision  into  a  score  of  tiny  bits ;  it  was  a  childish 


158 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


performance,  but  she  nevertheless  experienced  a 
certain  satisfaction  therein.  She  had  an  impulse 
to  tear  the  handkerchief  to  tatters  also,  and  fling 
the  bracelet  on  the  floor ;  but  certain  feminine  in 
stincts  kept  her  from  ruining  such  costly  things, 
even  in  her  present  mood.  She  did  fling  the 
bouquet  down,  noticing  only  that  it  contained  a 
quantity  of  camellias :  she  hated  them,  and  Al- 
leyne  knew  it,  or  ought  to  know  it ;  anyway,  a 
man  capable  of  deliberately  choosing  camellias 
deserved  to  be  guillotined!  But  presently  she 
noticed  the  odor  of  Cape  jessamines,  the  sight  or 
smell  of  which  never  failed  to  carry  her  back  to 
the  lost  days  in  Italy,  when  Castlemaine  used  to 
weave  them  in  her  hair.  She  picked  up  the  poor 
flowers,  selected  the  jessamines,  and  sat  holding 
them  to  her  heart,  kissing  them,  talking  to  them, 
going  mad,  as  she  did  lately  over  the  veriest 
trifle. 

Her  solitary  scene  left  her  tired  and  wretched 
and  cross.  She  sulked  all  day  over  the  fire  in 
her  dressing-room :  she  always  made  the  first 
cool  morning  a  pretext  for  fires  in  her  apart 
ments,  and  basked  in  the  heat  like  a  tropical 
animal. 

Roland  Spencer  called ;  she  refused  to  be  at 
home  even  to  him.  The  Tortoise  felt  moved  to 
pay  her  a  visit ;  but  though  Fanny,  sullen  as  she 
was,  had  not  the  heart  to  snub  the  defenseless 
creature,  she  proved  unequal  to  the  task  of  en 
tertaining  her,  and  soon  announced  that,  owing 
to  a  dreadful  headache,  she  should  be  better 
alone.  She  sent  the  poor  soul  away,  though  dis 
playing  a  patience  which  she  would  not  just  then 
have  exercised  toward  the  Emperor  of  all  the 
Russias,  had  he  bothered  her.  The  Tortoise 
crept  meekly  off,  not  venturing  to  thwart  Fanny 
when  she  looked  as  she  did  this  morning. 

The  day  dragged  on.  Nobody  intruded  but 
Antoinette,  who  brought  her  some  luncheon  and 
insisted  on  her  eating  it,  and  was  not  to  be  turn 
ed  from  her  purpose  either  by  excuses  or  sharp 
words. 

"I  shall  leave  mademoiselle  with  pleasure  as 
soon  as  she  has  emptied  this  plate  and  glass," 
said  Antoinette,  severely.  "Mademoiselle's  so 
ciety  is  not  agreeable  to-day,  but  I  shall  do  my 
duty  first !  Here  I  stand  till  mademoiselle  fin 
ishes  her  luncheon,  if  I  stand  till  Gabriel  blows 
the  great  trumpet — la  /" 

Fanny  ate  and  drank,  just  to  get  rid  of  her ; 
then  Antoinette  rushed  out  of  her  severe  mood 
into  a  tender  one,  and  kissed  her,  and  cried  over 
her,  and  called  her  a  thousand  endearing  names, 
as  if  she  had  been  a  child.  There  were  certain 
subjects  upon  which  Antoinette  never  opened  her 
lips ;  but  what  she  knew,  she  knew !  She  talked 
sometimes  of  her  young  mistress's  future  grand 
eur,  but  never  of  the  days  when  Talbot  Castle 
maine  haunted  her  path.  As  the  time  for  the 
marriage  approached,  and  Fanny's  vagaries  in 
creased,  Antoinette  petted  her  the  more,  but 


that  was  the  only  sign  she  showed  of  perceiving 
there  was  aught  amiss.  Still,  what  she  knew, 
she  knew ;  the  old  woman  said  that  often  to  her 
self  in  these  days,  and  shook  her  head  always 
with  heavy  sighs.  It  was  dusk  now — two  good 
hours  before  dinner ;  but  Fanny  started  suddenly 
out  of  her  black,  dreary  thoughts,  and  determined 
to  dress  at  once.  She  would  have  plenty  of  time 
after  to  get  her  spirits  up  to  a  proper  pitch  before 
the  people  came ;  such  odious  people — Mrs.  Pat- 
taker  among  them,  and,  worse  still,  Helen  Dev- 
ereux. 

She  rang  for  her  maid,  a  recent  acquisition, 
who  was  to  accompany  her  on  her  bridal  tour, 
and  whom  Fanny  disliked  in  consequence,  as  she 
did  every  thing  and  every  body  whose  presence 
reminded  her  of  what  had  now  come  so  near. 

Fanny  never  opened  her  lips  while  the  toilet 
process  went  on  ;  she  paid  as  slight  attention 
when  her  treasure  or  paragon — the  waiting- wom 
an's  testimonials  gave  an  opportunity  to  bestow 
either  name  as  her  present  mistress  might  see 
fit — attempted  little  remarks,  as  she  did  to  the 
curious  glances  which  that  epitome  of  human  ex 
cellence  cast  slyly  at  her  in  the  mirror. 

There  were  wild  rumors  afloat  this  day  in  Lon 
don  and  Paris.  St.  Simon's  name  was  on  many 
lips,  and  there  were  strange  hints  and  conject 
ures,  but  the  reports  lacked  verification.  Visit 
ors  enough  there  had  been  for  St.  Simon,  but 
they  did  not  find  him.  I  suppose  during  the 
past  twenty  years  no  single  novel  has  omitted  to 
mention  that  servants  always  know  more  than 
other  people  about  their  masters'  affairs,  and  are 
the  first  to  entertain  suspicions  when  matters  be 
gin  to  go  wrong.  I  shall  chronicle  the  remark 
here  just  to  show  that  I  am  not  too  proud  to  re 
peat  a  truth  at  once  patent  and  profound. 

The  servants  in  St.  Simon's  household  had  de 
cided  there  was  something  amiss  days  before 
these  vague  reports  began  to  fly  about  the  Bourse 
and  clubs,  and  Fanny's  elegant  Parisian  angel 
watched  her  mistress  with  eager  eyes,  sleepy 
and  unconcerned  as  she  forced  her  scrutinizing 
glances  to  appear. 

"Ciel,qu'elle  est  belle!" 

The  Parisian  seraph  or  paragon  uttered  this 

apostrophe  so  loudly,  dropping  a  hair-brush  at 

the  same  time,  that  the  combined  noises  roused 

Fanny  from  her  dark  reverie.     This  was  what 

the  maid  wanted.     She  had  borne  the  disregard 

'  of  her  conversational  efforts  with  lofty  patience  ; 

i  but  the  toilet  was  finished,  she  had  done  her  best, 

j  and  had  no  intention  of  allowing  her  success  to 

pass  unappreciated. 

Fanny  looked  up  for  the  first  time,  and  caught 
sight  of  herself  in  the  mirror.  She  was  dressed 
in  her  favorite  amber  color — jewels  in  her  hair — 
delicate  lace,  making  her  white  neck  and  arms 
appear  softer  and  whiter  still.  The  French 
woman's  theatrical  exclamation  had  a  great  deal 
of  truth  in  it.  If  not  positively  beautiful,  Fanny 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


150 


certainly  looked  very  handsome  to-night.  The 
unrest  of  the  past  weeks  had  only  added  new 
brilliancy  to  her  eyes,  and  new  delicacy  to  her 
complexion. 

"  You  have  your  Circe  look  on !" 

The  words  sounded  so  distinct  to  her  inner 
sense,  that  for  an  instant  it  seemed  as  if  Castle- 
maine's  voice  rang  in  her  ear.  It  was  a  speech 
he  often  uttered.  It  recurred  so  suddenly  to  her 
mind — she  heard  it  rather  than  thought  it — so 
plainly,  that  a  superstitious  thrill  shook  her,  as  if 
his  soul  by  some  strange  power  had  called  to 
hers  through  the  distance. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  —  saw  the  woman 
closely  observing  her. 

"You  have  done  wonders  for  me,  Celestine," 
she  said ;  "  thanks ;  you  have  made  me  look  al 
most  pretty." 

The  paragon  began  a  volley  of  exclamations, 
bat  Fanny  interrupted  her. 

"Do  you  know  if  monsieur  is  in?"  she  asked, 
carelessly,  as  she  clasped  about  her  arm  the 
bracelet  Alleyne  had  sent  that  morning,  appar 
ently  more  attentive  to  its  eifect  than  her  own 
question. 

The  treasure  thought  —  she  was  not  sure  (it 
was  a  primal  creed  with  that  admirable  creature 
never  to  admit  point-blank  ignorance  in  regard 
to  any  matter) — she  would  go  and  see,  if  made 
moiselle  desired. 

"  Monsieur  has  been  in  very  little  to-day,"  she 
added;  "and  so  many  persons  have  called  for 
him — oh,  so  many!" 

"It  is  so  every  day,"  Fanny  replied;  "he  is 
much  occupied.  Have  the  kindness  to  inquire 
whether  he  has  returned." 

The  paragon  would  go — fly  was  her  energetic 
expression  —  and  she  glided  across  the  room ; 
though  her  movements,  graceful  enough  to  have 
excited  the  envy  of  many  of  her  betters,  remind 
ed  one  somehow  of  a  serpent  rather  than  a  bird. 
She  opened  the  door,  started  back,  and  gave 
three  of  her  affected  shrieks  in  rapid  succession. 
She  had  almost  flung  herself  against  the  gentle 
man  of  whom  she  was  going  in  search.  "  Dieu  I 
del !  Vir-r-raiment !  She  begged  a  thousand 
pardons ;  the  unexpectedness  of  the  encounter 
startled  her !  She  was  just  seeking  monsieur  by 
mademoiselle's  desire,  and  here  monsieur  appear 
ed,  like — like — "  She  squeaked  the  fourth  time 
in  her  inability  to  find  the  comparison  she  sought. 
Then  she  retreated,  to  allow  monsieur  to  enter, 
giving  him  the  benefit  of  a  side  glance  out  of  her 
handsome  eyes,  and  beseeching  him  to  say  that 
he  had  never  seen  mademoiselle  so  beautiful,  so 
ravishing. 

St.  Simon  spoke  pleasantly  to  her,  as  he  al 
ways  could  and  did  to  a  pretty  woman,  admired 
his  niece,  complimented  the  paragon  on  her  gen 
ius,  and  then  that  treasure  was  obliged  to  depart, 
sorely  against  her  will. 

St.  Simon  opened  the  door  after  she  closed  it 


— a  habit  taught  him  by  certain  little  peculiar 
ities  of  his  own.  The  paragon  was  still  near 
the  key-hole,  stooping  to  arrange  her  shoe ;  but 
she  fled  as  rapidly  and  noiselessly  as  a  feather, 
not  considering  herself  safe  till  she  was  a  whole 
flight  of  stairs  away. 

St.  Simon  shut  the  door  again,  and  approached 
Fanny.  She  had  moved  to  the  fire-place,  and 
seated  herself  in  a  low  easy-chair.  He  leaned 
his  arm  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  glanced  down 
at  her.  He  was  already  in  evening  dress,  look 
ing  very  handsome  and  young ;  his  countenance 
had  recovered  its  usual  insouciant  expression. 

Fanny  neither  raised  her  eyes  nor  spoke :  she 
sat  gazing  sullenly  into  the  red  embers.  She 
was  madder  than  ever  after  her  long  solitude. 
He  might  stand  there  till  doomsday  without 
speaking,  if  he  pleased ;  she  would  not  open  her 
lips. 

He  remained  silent  for  several  seconds ;  studied 
her  face ;  glanced  at  the  fire ;  altered  the  po 
sition  of  an  ornament  on  the  mantel ;  regarded 
it  carefully,  then  restored  it  to  its  former  place. 
He  was  smiling  now — an  awful  smile  ;  his  eyes 
caught  the  glare  they  wore  the  night  he  opened 
the  telegram.  The  coals  crackled  and  snapped, 
a  gust  of  wind  moaned  in  the  chimney ;  there 
was  no  other  sound.  Fanny  sat  dumb,  looking 
each  instant  more  hopelessly  obstinate ;  again 
St.  Simon  smiled,  and  the  glare  in  his  eyes  deep 
ened. 

"  It  is  all  up,"  he  said,  very  quietly. 

Fanny  turned  now.  One  glance  at  the  feat 
ures,  whose  every  change  she  knew  so  well,  told 
her  that  the  forebodings  of  the  past  weeks  were 
realized ;  ruin  had  come !  She  did  not  speak  ; 
strong  as  her  will  and  self-control  were,  for  an 
instant  she  could  find  no  words. 

"Did  you  hear?"  he  asked,  in  the  same  low, 
passionless  tone. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked ;  and  though 
the  hands  clasped  in  her  lap  trembled  slightly, 
her  voice  was  as  low  and  cold  as  his. 

"Just  what  I  said  !  We  are  done  for — dish 
ed,  if  slang  will  make  it  any  plainer  to  your  com 
prehension."  And  there  was  the  cat-like  snarl 
in  his  voice  as  he  went  on :  "You  have  put  off 
and  put  off,  dallied  and  shilly-shallied,  in  spite  of 
every  thing  I  could  say — " 

"This  is  not  giving  me  any  information,"  she 
interrupted,  calmly. 

"  Is  it  not  ?  Well,  then,  I  doubt  very  much, 
my  lady,  your  ever  becoming  Mrs.  Gregory  Al 
leyne,  near  as  you  had  the  game  in  your  own 
hands." 

"And  why?  I  have  done  nothing  that  he 
might  not  know." 

"Do  you  think  he  is  likely  to  marry  a  con 
vict's  niece  ?"  retorted  St.  Simon. 

The  words  were  tittered  almost  in  a  whisper, 
but  they  sounded  like  a  shriek  in  Fanny's  ear. 
She  was  on  her  feet  now. 


ICO 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"In  God's  name,  what  have  you  done?"  she 
groaned. 

"  Keep  cool ;  it's  no  time  for  heroics.  I  want 
all  my  nerves  and  my  wits  too,"  he  answered; 
and  now  that  dreadful  smile  came  back  to  his 
lips. 

"  St.  Simon,  what  is  it  ?  what  has  happened  ?" 

"  The  mine  has  failed." 

"  The  mine  failed  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  knew  it  several  days  ago." 

"But  you  are  not  to  blame  for  that.  You 
suffer  like  the  others." 

"Ah,  there  has  been  an  explosion !  That  fool 
in  New  York  let  himself  be  caught,  instead  of 
making  off,  as  he  had  plenty  of  time  to  do." 

"But  even  in  that  case,  I  thought — " 

"He  has  peached!  He  has  given  up  the 
double  set  of  books — let  every  thing  out — do  you 
see  ?  It  is  not  only  the  money  I  have  spent  and 
can't  replace ;  they  have  me  on  every  side." 

He  was  perfectly  calm  ;  she  too.  They  look 
ed  wonderfully  alike  as  they  stood  opposite  each 
other,  with  that  dreadful  light  in  their  eyes. 

"  Is  it  a  case  the  extradition  treaty  touches?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes;  but  I  could  be  arrested  anyway:  the 
operations  have  been  carried  on  here." 

"Is  it  certain — quite?" 

"I  shall  be  arrested  before  to-morrow  morn 
ing,"  he  said,  rolling  a  cigarette  as  he  spoke. 

"Then  what  are  you  doing  here?"  she  cried. 
"  You  must  be  mad !" 

"I'll  play  it  out  to  the  end,"  he  said,  with  a 
laugh.  "I'll  dine  comfortably — take  old  Pat- 
taker  into  dinner  too." 

"  But  it  must  be  known  ;  nobody  will  come." 

"  Only  rumors.  It  has  been  kept  deuced  close 
for  fear  I  should  make  off — the  idea  of  expecting 
to  catch  me  asleep !"  He  was  puffing  quietly  at 
his  cigarette  now.  "  The  people  will  come  fast 
enough,  Fan,  just  to  see  what  they  can  find  out." 

"Are  you  ready  ?    Can  you  get  off?" 

He  nodded,  sending  a  triple  ring  of  blue  smoke 
from  his  lips. 

"  How  ?    Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"I?  Nonsense!  Nowhere,  of  course."  She 
waited,  her  face  full  of  eagerness ;  she  knew  by 
his  manner  that  all  his  plans  were  arranged. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

"Well!  Jonas  Petty  is  going  to  America," 
said  he.  "  Jonas  Petty  has  his  passport.  He's 
a  sandy  -  haired,  red  -  bearded  fellow,  is  Jonas ; 
limps  a  little — not  a  beauty  to  look  at — but  he'll 
get  off  neatly." 

Fanny  seized  his  arm  in  both  her  hands,  and 
fairly  shook  him  to  and  fro. 

"  The  power  of  attorney !"  she  gasped.  "  You 
can  use  it,  you  are  sure  ?" 

"Perfectly  ;  but  I  shall  wait  to  see  whether  it 
is  necessary." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Suppose  Alleyne  holds  to  his  bargain.     Yes, 


I  see  you  shrug  your  shoulders,  but  you  do  care ! 
Don't  be  crazy ;  don't  let  him  off.  Try  every 
thing — tears — broken  heart — " 

"Leave  that  alone,"  she  broke  in.  "If  ho 
marries  me  ?" 

"Why,  if  he  does,  he  may  be  willing,  for  his 
own  sake,  to  try  and  settle  matters.  I  can't  tell, 
but  money  enough  might  keep  the  company 
quiet." 

"  It  is  you  who  are  crazy,  St.  Simon." 

"Never  can  tell!  Well,  at  least  Alleyne 
might  be  willing  to  set  me  up  in  a  new  coun 
try—" 

"But  if  not?" 

"Then  Jonas  Petty  will  go  to  the  United 
States.  That  power  of  attorney  will  bore  a  fine 
hole  in  the  fair  Helen's  possessions,  and  start  me 
in  Brazil.  Now,  Fan,  if  Alleyne  makes  off — 
and  it's  an  even  chance — one  can't  wager  which 
way  his  fine  scruples  will  go  ;  nine  men  out  of 
ten  would  leave  you  in  the  lurch,  but  he  has  so 
many  wonderful  theories  that  perhaps  he  will 
keep  to  the  mark." 

"I  think  he  will,  St.  Simon  ;  but  I  am  moral 
ly  certain  he  will  not  help  you.  I  would  do  all 
I  could,  you  know  that ;  but  I  could  not  influ 
ence  him  there." 

"  Possibly  not ;  I  don't  much  expect  it ;  but 
there's  the  bare  chance." 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  be  gone,"  she  moaned, 
"not  standing  here  talking  of  impossibilities. 
How  are  you  to  get  off?  The  police  are  keen  as 
so  many  blood-hounds." 

"Jonas  will  go  to  Bordeaux,  and  stay  there 
till  he  hears  from  you.  There  is  not  the  slight 
est  danger;  I  have  it  all  as  clear  as  a  map. 
Put  your  fears  out  of  your  head." 

"  You  mean  to  go  to  Brazil  ?" 

"  Yes.  Now,  Fan,  if  Alleyne  backs  out — and 
an  awful  fool  he  will  be  if  he  doesn't,  in  such  a 
smash — you  must  go  there  with  the  Tortoise; 
that  is,  if  you  can  do  no  better.  I  suppose  you 
must  have  some  money — more  than  enough,  I 
fancy,  though  you  have  been  very  close  about 
your  goings-on  ;  anyway,  there's  the  little  wind 
fall  from  Besson." 

"I  have  enough  to  get  on  ;  never  mind  about 
me.  But  don't  wait  here  ;  why,  every  moment 
is  precious ! " 

"There's  no  risk,  I  tell  you.  I  shall  have  a 
full  hour's  warning.  A  fellow  has  his  friends 
even  at  a  pass  like  this.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  dine  with  the  people,  and  have  the  Pat- 
taker  by  me  at  table,  and  tell  the  story  out ;  it 
will  be  a  jolly  lark." 

He  saw  that  she  was  really  alarmed  for  his 
safety,  so  he  explained  every  thing.  An  asso 
ciate  in  London  and  another  in  Paris  were  on 
the  watch.  It  was  for  their  interest  that  he 
should  escape,  and,  as  so  often  happens  in  such 
cases,  their  arrangements  were  far  more  astute 
and  complete  than  those  of  the  police. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


1C1 


"So  we  will  have  one  more  feast  in  our  Alad 
din's  palace,  Fan, "he  said.  "Heigh-ho!  it  is 
rough  to  turn  out  into  the  cold  again,  after  hav 
ing  been  comfortable  so  long !  But  what  a  year 
we  have  had  of  it,  eh  ?" 

She  did  not  remind  him  that  it  was  in  a  great 
measure  his  own  reckless  expenditure  which  had 
brought  them  to  the  present  pass.  Had  he  let 
cards  alone,  avoided  certain  other  temptations 
which  had  cost  rivers  of  gold,  his  present  posi 
tion  might  have  been  no  worse  than  that  of 
other  stockholders  or  directors.  If  his  villainy 
had  come  to  light,  ho  would  in  that  case  have 
had  the  money  by  him  to  restore ;  nothing  but 
suspicion  could  have  attached  to  him.  But  she 
uttered  no  word  of  recrimination.  Indeed,  she 
scarcely  thought  how  different  his  conduct  in 
the  past  twelve  months  might  have  rendered 
this  crisis,  except  with  a  sensation  of  pity  for 
him  personally.  Where  she  was  concerned,  she 
did  not  reflect  much  as  yet.  She  thought  it 
very  probable  Alleyne  would  hold  to  his  vows; 
the  prospect  of  that  married  life  loomed  so  es 
pecially  dreary  after  her  day  of  solitary  musing, 
that  she  almost  wished  he  might  not.  But  this 
was  silly;  she  told  herself  so  while  she  sat  look 
ing  at  St.  Simon.  Of  course  she  should  marry 
the  man ;  her  art  would  carry  her  through. 
Even  now  she  trusted  to  this  rather  than  to  Al- 
leyne's  honor,  or  tried  to  believe  she  did ;  for 
she  hated  to  admit  that  she  knew  he  was  noble 
and  earnest  and  true,  in  spite  of  the  contumely 
with  which  for  weeks  she  had  striven  to  cover 
him  in  her  thoughts. 

"  They  will  talk  about  St.  Simon  and  his  sil 
ver  mine  for  more  than  nine  days  to  come,"  she 
heard  her  companion  say,  through  the  host  of 
reflections  which  his  last  words  had  called  up. 
There  was  a  sort  of  exultation  in  his  tone,  as  if 
in  admiration  of  his  own  wickedness.  "Well, 
Fan,  they  say  there  is  only  a  cast  of  the  dice  be 
tween  a  hero  and  a  murderer !  A  little  more, 
and  instead  of  an  outlaw  I  should  have  been  one 
of  the  great  moneyed  powers  of  our  day.  By 
Jove,  its  enough  to  make  one  curse  fate !  But 
cui  bono  ?  It  was  to  be,  I  suppose — kismet,  as 
the  Mussulmans  say.  Mind  you,  I  don't  give  in 
yet.  After  all  that  is  done  and  gone,  and  what 
I  must  do  still,  I  don't  give  in.  I  shall  die  in 
my  bed  a  respectable  capitalist ;  mark  my  words. 
How  I  did  the  respectable,  eh  ? — church-going, 
and  all;"  and  he  began  to  laugh  again.  "But 
I  lost  my  head ;  I'll  own  that.  You're  a  good 
girl,  Fan,  not  to  have  reminded  me  of  it.  I 
swear  the  most  I  care  about  is  that  I  couldn't 
have  held  out  till  you  were  safe.  You  don't  oft 
en  believe  me,  but  you  may  believe  that." 

"I  do,  St.  Simon.  But  you  need  not  mind 
about  me.  Of  course  I  shall  do  my  best  to  mar 
ry  Alleyne.  If  I  don't,  I  dare  say  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  escaped  all  the  dreariness  and 
weariness." 

11 


"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Fan.  I  tell  you  there's 
nothing  like  respectability.  It's  the  merest  pre 
tense  and  phantom  possible,  but  there  must  be 
something  in  it.  Look  at  the  people  outside  the 
pale,  how  they  fight  to  get  back." 

"  Yes  ;  I  suppose  you  are  right." 

"  I  know  I  am.  If  Alleyne  fails,  you  will  feel 
it.  Why,  what  else  shall  I  struggle  for?  One 
despises  the  world,  but  one  wants  to  live  in  it  all 
the  same,  Fan." 

"And  by  the  world  one  means  a  narrow  set 
of  brainless,  soulless  idiots,"  she  cried. 

"Never  mind  that.  Let  me  see  why  it  is. 
A  little,  I  suppose,  from  the  feeling  that  made 
the  Frenchwoman  wish  it  were  a  sin  to  drink  a 
glass  of  cold  water.  If  one  is  out  in  the  dark, 
and  obliged  to  live  among  the  offscourings  of  the 
earth,  there's  no  pleasure  in  wickedness;  that 
must  be  it.  One  wants  the  excitement  of  in 
trigue  and  secrecy,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing, 
eh?" 

"I  dare  say." 

Her  voice  sounded  absent ;  she  scarcely  heard 
him.  She  was  thinking  of  a  spring  day  in  Sor 
rento,  when  she  and  Castlemaine  sat  on  the  cliffs 
overlooking  the  sea,  and  gazed  out  across  the 
sunlit  sweep.  She  could  recall  every  word  he 
spoke,  each  smile,  each  passionate  glance ;  could 
hear  the  murmur  of  the  waves,  and  catch  the 
glory  of  the  blue  heavens  and  the  opal  waters. 

Then  St.  Simon's  careless  tones  reached  her 
again,  and  shut  out  the  magic  scene. 

"Here  we  are  discussing  metaphysical  sub 
jects,  and  the  wolf  just  at  the  door,"  he  was  say 
ing.  "Now,  I  call  that  coolness.  Fan,  we  are 
trumps,  if  only  we  could  have  a  fair  show." 

A  fresh  tremor  of  alarm  shook  her,  but  she 
recollected  his  explanations,  and  subdued  it.  He 
was  safe ;  there  was  no  use  of  irritating  him  by 
any  weak  outburst  or  theatrical  display. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Half-past  seven  ;  an  hour  yet  to  dinner.  I'll 
wager  what  you  like,  Fan,  that  nobody  is  late  to 
night." 

"I  should  as  soon  expect  vultures  to  be  late," 
returned  she,  bitterly.  "They  will  all  come, 
wild  to  see  how  we  look  after  the  stories  that 
have  been  going  about  to-day." 

"  We  shall  have  a  fair  show,  no  doubt  of  that. 
Lord !  to  think  of  the  Pattaker's  face  when  the 
denouement  comes !  It  is  too  bad  I  shall  have 
to  miss  that." 

"I  wish  she  was  as  safe  really  to  suffer  as  the 
Devereux  is,"  cried  Fanny,  venomously. 

"Poor  Helen!"  laughed  he.  "Why,hitting 
her  almost  consoles  you  for  every  thing,  Fan." 

"Don't  talk  about  her;  I  can't  bear  it,  just 
now." 

He  pulled  the  bell,  still  laughing. 

"I  shall  order  some  brandy -and -soda,"  he 
sa^id ;  and  he  did  so  when  the  servant  appeared, 
ordering  sherry  also.  "It  is  for  you, Fan,"  he 


162 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


observed;  "you  will  find  that  and  the  Cham 
pagne  at  dinner  set  your  nerves  as  steady  as  a 
rock." 

Fanny  did  not  want  the  wine.  She  pretended 
to  drink  it,  that  he  might  be  satisfied  in  regard 
to  her  composure,  but  her  throat  felt  so  hot  and 
parched  she  could  not  swallow.  Besides,  her 
nerves  would  support  her  to  the  end ;  she  knew 
that.  What  might  happen  afterward  was  no 
matter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  LAST  FETE. 

HALF-PAST  eight  came.  St.  Simon,  Fanny, 
and  the  Tortoise  were  in  the  salon. 

The  Tortoise  was  rather  miserable;  a  pin 
pricked  her  in  a  tender  quarter,  and  when  she  at 
tempted  to  stir  she  had  a  feeling  of  insecurity 
which  portended  ill-attached  strings  in  some  se 
cret  portion  of  her  attire,  and  direful  results 
therefrom.  She  was  afraid  to  tell  Fanny  because 
of  St.  Simon's  presence,  but  they  both  perceived 
there  was  something  amiss  by  her  signs  and  pit 
eous  grimaces  ;  so  St.  Simon  good  -  naturedly 
srfuntered  into  an  adjacent  room  while  Fanny  put 
the  crumbly  sufferer  in  order  again,  and  took  out 
of  her  neck  a  huge  pin,  which  seemed  to  have 
got  there  for  the  express  purpose  of  lacerating 
her  flesh  and  nerves. 

When  St.  Simon  returned,  the  Tortoise  was 
at  ease,  and  laughing  in  her  feeble  way  over  some 
nonsensical  speech  of  Fanny's.  St.  Simon  laugh 
ed  too.  He  went  up  to  the  partner  of  his  joys, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm  with  a  caressing 
movement.  The  Tortoise  swerved  and  winked 
at  first  like  a  child  accustomed  to  having  its  ears 
boxed,  then  stared  from  him  to  Fanny  in  be 
wilderment. 

"You  look  very  nicely  to-night,  T.,"  he  said, 
and  there  was  no  tinge  of  the  mockery  usually 
audible  in  his  voice  when  he  addressed  her.  "You 
were  a  wonderfully  pretty  girl,  T.,  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  and  you  are  pretty  yet. " 

"Lor,  St.  Simon !"  quoth  the  Tortoise. 

He  let  his  hand  rest  for  an  instant  on  her 
shoulder;  he  smoothed  a  stray  curl  that  had 
wandered  out  of  place,  then  resumed  his  slow 
march  up  and  down.  He  was  neither  silent  nor 
moody.  He  laughed  and  jested  with  Fanny,  and 
seemed  in  his  highest  spirits ;  but  Fanny  knew 
how  deeply  he  was  moved  under  this  show,  when 
she  saw  him  caress  the  Tortoise  for  the  first  time 
in  her  long  acquaintance  with  the  pair. 

The  guests  arrived  punctually,  as  St.  Simon 
had  predicted — three  or  four  at  the  same  instant, 
in  their  eagerness  to  discover,  if  possible,  wheth 
er  there  could  be  any  foundation  for  the  strange 
rumors.  Mrs.  Pattaker  owed  it  to  her  dignity 
not  to  appear  among  the  earliest  comers,  though 
there  was  nobodv  more  curious  and  anxious  than 


she.  All  day  she  had  been  exceedingly  busy, 
driving  about  to  every  house  where  she  could 
hope  to  obtain  tidings,  and  persecuting  each  man 
of  her  acquaintance  for  news.  The  mind  of  the 
great  lady  was  divided  between  two  emotions — 
a  dread  that  the  reports  might  prove  true,  and  so 
all  those  fine  shares  St.  Simon  had  presented  her 
be  worth  nothing ;  and  a  desire  to  see  retribution 
overtake  Fanny,  in  order  that  she,  Mrs.  Pattaker, 
might  perceive  a  special  providence  in  the  blow, 
and  an  awful  warning  to  all  godless  young  wom 
en  who  presumed  to  thwart  her  will  or  treat  with 
disrespect  her  claims  to  absolute  sovereignty. 

St.  Simon  was  delightful,  gay,  and  smiling, 
and  Fanny  was  bewitching  as  only  she  could  be. 
When  she  moved  toward  the  Signer's  descend 
ant,  so  perfect  in  dress,  so  composed,  with  such 
pleasant  words  of  greeting,  and  yet  such  an  ut 
ter  ignoring  of  any  special  claims  to  attention  on 
the  part  of  the  lady,  the  illustrious  woman  felt 
that  if  a  special  providence  in  the  shape  of  a  ter 
rible  downfall  did  not  overtake  the  insolent  creat 
ure,  then  her  belief  in  eternal  justice  must  meet 
with  a  shock. 

Eighteen  guests  in  all.  Foreign  titled  people 
— two  stately  embassadors :  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Dudgeon  (the  latter  struggling  fiercely  with  a 
whole  pot  of  roses  which  she  carried  on  the  top 
of  her  head),  Colonel  Judd  (creaking,  as  he  walk 
ed,  more  like  a  pair  of  tailor's  shears  than  ever), 
Helen  Devereux  and  her  mother,  and  Roland 
Spencer.  The  last  named  had  originally  only 
been  invited  for  the  evening  along  with  the  gen 
erality  of  the  young  folk ;  but  when  he  called  at 
the  house  during  the  morning  Fanny  sent  him 
word  that  he  must  come,  because  Alleyne  could 
not  return  in  season. 

By  the  time  St.  Simon  had  finished  his  com 
pliments  to  Mrs.  Pattaker  dinner  was  announced. 
The  eyes  of  the  illustrious  were  sharp  as  dag 
gers;  she  perceived  Alleyne's  absence.  Could 
the  reports  be  true — had  he  drawn  back  ?  At 
least  here  was  an  opportunity  to  chastise  Fanny, 
and  she  must  do  it. 

St.  Simon  was  offering  his  arm :  Mrs.  Patta 
ker  looked  at  his  niece,  and  said,  audibly, 

"And  you  don't  beg  your  uncle  to  give  Mr. 
Alleyne  five  minutes' grace  ?  I  see  he  has  not 
arrived." 

"Oh  no,"  laughed  Fanny;  "five  minutes' 
grace  is  too  much  for  any  man ;  it  would  not 
serve  in  this  case  either.  Mr.  Alleyne  is  not 
coming." 

Mrs.  Pattaker  glanced  slowly  round  the  circle 
— every  body  had  risen,  and  was  waiting  for  her 
and  St.  Simon  to  head  the  charge ;  still,  consid 
ering  what  was  in  most  minds,  Fanny's  words 
produced  a  certain  effect. 

"Truly,  I  perceive  we  have  an  even  num 
ber,"  said  Mrs.  Pattaker,  and  she  turned  to  Fan 
ny  again :  there  was  a  grand  compassion  now 
visible  in  her  countenance. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


163 


"Miss  St.  Simon  was  good  enough  to  send  for 
me  to  fill  the  vacant  place, "said  Spencer,  per 
ceiving  the  lady's  drift. 

"You  mean  you  were  good-natured  enough 
to  grant  my  request,"  returned  Fanny,  merrily. 

"I  trust  that  Mr.  Alleyne  is  not  ill,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Pattaker,  with  a  lofty  show  of  in 
terest. 

"I  am  sure  I  hope  not,"  said  Fanny,  coolly. 

Scarcely  a  face  now  that  could  control  an  ex 
pression  of  eager  curiosity ;  this  certainly  looked 
as  if  something  were  wrong.  Helen  Devereux's 
detestation  of  whatever  was  malicious  caused  her 
to  speak. 

"I  met  Mr.  Alleyne  on  his  way  to  the  sta 
tion,  Fanny,"  she  said ;  and  it  was  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  ever  addressed  the  girl  with  such 
friendly  familiarity.  "He  told  me  he  could  not 
get  back  from  Fontainebleau  before  nine  o'clock. 
I  suppose  if  a  single  chair  were  not  just  in  its 
place  in  that  bijou  of  a  villa,  he  would  be  wretch 
ed." 

The  mystery  was  cleared  up.  People  began 
to  glare  at  Mrs.  Pattaker  covertly  for  detaining 
them  from  dinner.  Fanny  appeared  just  suffi 
ciently  conscious;  St  Simon  offered  some  fitting 
remark ;  the  march  began.  Mrs.  Pattaker  was 
not  to  be  put  to  confusion,  however;  she  had 
time  to  let  one  look  of  extreme  thankfulness  be 
visible  to  Fanny.  If  she  had  no  need  to  pity 
the  girl,  she  would  at  least  show  her  gratitude  to 
Heaven  because  the  necessity  did  not  exist. 

They  were  at  table.  In  the  brief  silence 
which  followed  the  removal  of  the  soup-plates, 
St.  Simon  turned  to  the  great  lady  at  his  side. 
"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Pattaker  did  not  mean  to  be  led  into  a 
second  blunder ;  she  could  not  allow  her  reputa 
tion  for  astuteness  to  run  such  risk. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  replied  ;  "  one  never  hears  any 
news  nowadays." 

"Ah!  but  there  was  news  to-day,"  he  re 
joined. 

Every  body  was  listening. 

"You  must  have  heard  it,  Sir  John,"  contin 
ued  St.  Simon. 

"  Never  listen  to  any  thing  myself;  keep  my 
ears  shut;  sure  to  hear  lies  if  one  does  not," 
puffed  the  baronet ;  but  he  looked  slightly  con 
fused,  notwithstanding. 

"I  heard  that  the  Nevada  mine  had  failed," 
said  St.  Simon,  laughing.  "As  if  that  were 
not  enough  in  the  way  of  a  surprise,  certain  per 
sons  got  up  a  report  that  I  was  to  be  arrested  for 
purloining  other  people's  goods." 

Nearly  all  the  guests  were  glad  to  join  his 
laughter  in  order  to  cover  their  embarrassment. 
Fanny  glanced  from  one  to  another.  She  wish 
ed  to  see  who  laughed  most  heartily ;  of  course 
it  would  be  those  who  had  been  the  first  and 
loudest  in  repeating  the  stories. 

"By  Jove!"  puffed   Sir  John  again  in  his 


stuffy  voice.     "Did  I  not  just  say  it?    People 
will  tell  any  thing,  provided  it  is  a  lie." 

Colonel  Judd  and  several  others  hastened  to 
add  their  verdict  to  this  assertion. 

"  It  makes  one  ready  to  weep  for  poor  human 
nature,"  said  Mrs.  Pattaker.  "Thank  Heaven 
few  slanderous  reports  ever  reach  me;"  and  she 
looked  up  as  if  enthroned  on  a  height  so  lofty  that 
such  vile  sublunary  things  were  too  weak- winged 
to  attain  to  the  pure  airs  wherein  she  dwelt. 

"I  have  heard  rumors  of  the  failure  several 
times  to-day,"  observed  Helen  Devereux;  "but 
nobody  could  tell  where  they  originally  came 
from." 

"Did  you  believe  them  just  because  they  were 
so  delightfully  vague  ?"  demanded  Fanny,  gayly, 
though  the  lady  whom  she  addressed  understood, 
what  no  one  else  did,  the  covert  sneer  in  the 
speaker's  words. 

"I  decided  to  wait  for  positive  confirmation," 
Miss  Devereux  replied,  calmly.  Her  conscience 
was  too  clear  for  her  to  show  confusion,  and  she 
had  made  up  her  mind,  whether  it  were  dignified 
or  not,  never  again  to  suffer  Fanny's  sly  thrusts 
without  returning  them  in  kind. 

"Now,  that  is  being  better  than  human  nature 
has  a  right  to  show  itself,"  returned  the  other, 
quite  able,  much  as  she  hated  the  girl,  to  appre 
ciate  her  courage.  "  I  should  have  believed  the 
worst  at  once,  and  vowed  that  I  had  expected  it 
all  along.  Please  admit  that  you  did  so,  Helen." 

Every  body  laughed  at  Fanny's  nonsense ;  but 
Miss  Devereux  said,  coolly, 

"  If  it  were  true,  I  would  without  hesitation." 
Then,  afraid  that  her  speech  might  have  sounded 
a  little  hard,  she  added,  "  Have  you  any  idea  how 
the  reports  got  abroad,  Mr.  St.  Simon  ?" 

"A  bit  of  stock-jobbing  trickery  in  London," 
he  answered.  "  They  will  pay  rather  dearly, 
however,  before  we  have  done." 

"They  ought  to  be  gibbeted,"  asserted  Sir 
John.  "Yes,  by  Jove!  drawn  and  quartered  into 
the  bargain.  Those  broker  fellows  are  capable 
of  any  thing." 

Most  of  the  company  joined  in  repeating  both 
opinions. 

"  Can  you  track  the  thing  to  its  source,  Saint  ?" 
asked  Colonel  Judd,  with  that  odious  familiarity 
he  was  fond  of  displaying  toward  people  whom 
"the  king  delighted  to  honor." 

"Yes,  without  doubt,"  the  host  said,  firmly. 
"  I  may  very  probably  have  news  to-night  which 
will  clear  up  the  whole  matter." 

"It  will  be  likely  to  prove  a  somewhat  danger 
ous  business  for  the  perpetrators,"  one  of  the  em- 
bassadors  remarked. 

"Slightly  so,"  returned  St.  Simon,  with  n 
meaning  smile. 

Every  body  deemed  it  a  duty  to  say  something, 
but  Mrs.  Pattaker  exceeded  all  others  in  her  con 
demnation  of  such  wickedness — her  horror  that 
human  infamy  could  have  gone  to  the  extent  of 


164 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


assailing  the  name  of  her  friend— yes,  her  valued 
and  esteemed  friend,  if  he  would  permit  her  to 
give  him  this  title.  She  positively  extended  her 
hand  to  St.  Simon  as  she  uttered  these  words 
with  theatrical  emphasis.  St.  Simon  took  her 
hand,  bowed  over  it  with  perfect  grace,  and  de 
clared  that  her  sympathy  went  straight  to  his 
heart — ay,  down  to  the  very  core  of  that  suscep 
tible  organ.  For  he  could  not  help  feeling  such 
goodness ;  he  was  old  enough  to  be  ashamed  of 
his  own  susceptibility,  but  he  could  not  help  it ; 
indeed,  he  would  not  if  he  could.  He  made  his 
voice  tremble  beautifully;  and  Fanny,  who  was 
certainly  a  judge,  thought  she  had  never  seen  a 
bit  of  acting  more  neatly  done. 

Then  St.  Simon  laughed  at  his  own  earnest 
ness,  and  recovered  his  playful  tone.  He  talked 
a  great  deal  about  the  affair,  and  caused  his 
guests  to  laugh  heartily  over  a  picture  he  drew 
of  himself  in  prison,  with  Fanny  beating  wildly 
on  the  outer  doors,  and  demanding  her  uncle, 
while  his  spouse  sat  flat  on  the  ground  dissolved 
in  tears,  having  lost  one  shoe  in  her  frantic  race. 
St.  Simpn  never  did  any  thing  better  in  a  con 
versational  way  than  that  description. 

The  Tortoise  fortunately  neither  heard  nor 
understood  the  jesting  talk,  else  she  would  have 
grown  frightened.  She  perceived  dimly  there 
was  some  joke  afoot,  and  closed  her  ears  reso 
lutely,  as  she  always  did  on  such  occasions.  A 
joke  was  a  puzzle  which  caused  her  head  to  ache 
worse  than  the  severest  algebraic  problem  ever 
•  did  that  of  a  mathematician. 

The  dinner  was  a  very  gay  one ;  much  wine 
was  drunk,  many  witty  things  were  said.  Al 
together,  famous  as  St.  Simon's  feasts  had  grown, 
this  certainly  was  the  crowning  one  in  every  way. 

"I  am  so  glad  it  was  only  a  rumor," Spencer 
said  to  Fanny ;  "  I  mean  about  the  failure.  Of 
course  the  other  story  was  too  ridiculous  to  no 
tice  ;  but  mines  are  such  slippery  things." 

"Yes,  you  would  have  been  sorry," returned 
Fanny,  in  the  same  low  voice ;  ' '  but  fancy  the 
exultation  of  these  wretches." 

"  Oh  no!  nobody  could  be  wicked  enough  for 
that." 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  have  often  told  you  that  you 
were  too  good  for  this  world,"  said  she. 

"At  least  I  will  not  think  people  are  so  wick 
ed  as  you  pretend  to  believe." 

"But  suppose  it  had  all  been  true,"  she  per 
sisted,  "then  you  would  have  had  to  believe  in 
our  wickedness." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  could  have  to  do  with  it." 

"You  could  not  separate  me  from  St.  Simon 
— I  show  his  confidence ;  I  have  rather  a  head 
for  business,  he  says.  Come  now — if  it  had  been 
true?" 

"Then  I  should  have  pitied  you  both." 

"Oh!  this  dear  old  Roland!  "she  muttered. 
"Yes,  you  certainly  are  much  too  good  for  this 
dreary  world." 


"  How  absurd  it  seems  even  to  talk  about  such 
possibilities, "he  said,  "sitting  here  and  looking 
at  you  and  St.  Simon." 

"Does  it  not?" 

He  was  laughing,  and  she  echoed  his  merri 
ment.  Fanny  looked  about;  every  body  was 
talking  at  once ;  next  to  her  sat  a  fat  French 
man,  who  spoke  little  English,  and  was  deaf,  be 
sides. 

"The  gayest  dinner  \\e  have  ever  had  even 
here,"  said  Spencer. 

"  Yes !  Bend  your  head,  Roland ;  pretend  to 
keep  my  fan  from  falling." 

He  gave  her  an  odd  glance,  she  returned  it 
with  a  smile,  signing  him  to  obey. 

"Well?" he  asked,  stooping  for  the  fan,  which 
she  allowed  to  drop  against  his  chair. 

Fanny  bowed  her  head. 

"It  is  all  true,"  she  whispered,  "every  word 
is  true." 

The  fan  fell  with  a  little  crash ;  Eoland  raised 
himself,  pale  and  startled.  She  met  his  gaze 
with  the  same  smiling  composure. 

"What  a  goose  I  am !"  he  said ;  "you  fright 
ened  me." 

"If  I  can  bear  it,  you  may,"  she  answered, 
still  smiling,  though  for  an  instant  he  saw  the 
muscles  of  her  mouth  twitch,  and  something  in 
her  eyes  brought  a  new  pang  of  terror  to  his 
heart. 

"Fanny!" 

"  I  meant  it — every  word !" 

Roland's  brain  positively  whirled ;  for  a  few 
seconds  he  could  see  nothing  distinctly.  When 
he  was  able  to  hear  again  and  look  about,  Fanny 
sat  talking  gayly  to  her  opposite  neighbor,  and 
St.  Simon  held  his  wine-glass  in  his  hand,  a  pict 
ure  of  content.  Roland  felt  as  if  it  must  be 
some  horrid  dream  ;  but  he  recalled  the  expres 
sion  in  Fanny's  eyes,  and  knew  that  it  was  real. 

Dessert  was  on  the  table.  A  servant  placed  a 
note  in  St.  Simon's  hand. 

"  Will  you  permit?"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Pattaker. 

The  Signer's  descendant  beamed  a  gracious  as 
sent.  St.  Simon  read  the  billet,  and  smiled ; 
stealing  one  rapid  glance  at  Fanny,  who  missed 
nothing  of  the  scene,  though  she  did  not  seem 
even  to  be  looking  that  way. 

"Sir  John!"  cried  St.  Simon,  "we  have  the 
clue.  Huzza!" 

"Huzza!"  echoed  from  half  a  dozen  mascu 
line  throats.  At  such  an  announcement,  and  at 
that  stage  of  the  repast,  enthusiasm  was  allow 
able  even  in  Mrs.  Pattaker's  opinion.  Indeed, 
the  great  lady  fairly  smote  the  tips  of  her  jewel 
ed  fingers  together  in  sign  of  approval.  Roland 
Spencer  stared  confounded,  more  undecided  than 
ever  as  to  whether  Fanny  had  jested  or  he  turned 
idiotic. 

' '  Bravo !  bravo ! "  wheezed  Sir.  John.  ' '  Pun 
ish  the  rascals  well,  my  dear  St.  Simon ;  clem- 
eucv  would  be  weakness  in  a  case  like  this." 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


1C5 


"Justice  shall  be  satisfied,  or  own  herself  a 
very  ill-used  female,"  laughed  the  host.  "Mrs. 
Pattaker,  I  am  sure  you  will  persuade  our  friends 
to  excuse  my  rudeness.  I  will  join  you  in  the 
salon." 

"Yes,  yes;  by  all  means,"  returned  she. 
"But  what  is  it?  Tell  me  the  good  news — the 
glorious  news !" 

"You  shall  hear  it  all  when  I  come  back,"  he 
said,  affecting  to  lower  his  voice.  "A  man  from 
London  has  just  arrived ;  he  says  his  informa 
tion  is  complete,  and  must  be  acted  on  at  once. 
I  shall  not  be  long." 

He  left  the  room,  jesting  and  laughing  to  the 
very  door,  which  the  maitre  (f  hotel  held  open 
with  even  lower  bows  than  usual,  feeling  it  an 
honor  to  serve  a  master  like  his. 

Great  confusion  of  a  pleasant  sort  ensued 
upon  his  departure.  Mrs.  Pattaker  and  Sir  John 
were  most  vehement  in  their  expressions  of  de 
light  and  their  praises  of  St.  Simon.  There  was 
laughter  and  merry  talk ;  Fanny  took  her  part 
with  perfect  ease.  The  Tortoise  and  Lady  Dud 
geon  nibbled  nuts,  not  in  the  least  understand 
ing  what  had  happened.  Helen  Devereux  alone 
sat  rather  silent ;  she  had  caught  the  glance  St. 
Simon  gave  his  niece  as  he  opened  the  note ; 
she  knew  enough  of  the  man  to  be  alarmed. 
Once  she  looked  at  Fanny,  and  Fanny  met  her 
eyes  with  a  haughty,  defiant  stare,  which  she 
took  no  pains  to  soften. 

At  last  a  servant  brought  Miss  St.  Simon 
word  that  other  guests  had  arrived. 

"Aunt,"  she  said,  "at  least  we  feminines 
must  depart.  Sir  John,  have  the  goodness  to 
play  host  to  such  of  your  sex  as  like  to  wait  a 
while  here  for  my  uncle." 

The  ladies  rose;  most  of  the  younger  men 
were  ready  to  go.  Sir  John  and  a  few  others 
stood  up,  but  resumed  their  seats  as  the  females 
floated  out,  inclined  to  imbibe  another  bottle  of 
claret,  and  talk  over  the  reports  of  the  day. 
And  while  they  talked,  growing  so  much  inter 
ested  that  the  solitary  bottle  swelled  into  several, 
St.  Simon  received  his  full  meed  of  praise  as  a 
wonderful  man,  and  a  splendid  fellow  in  every 
respect. 

"By  Jove!  he'll  give  those  chaps  a  bad  half- 
hour,"  chuckled  Sir  John. 

"He's  a  genius,  you  know;  and  that's  the 
fact,"  chimed  in  Colonel  Judd.  "We  shall  see 
him  a  second  Rothschild  yet." 

And  the  others  joined  heartily  in  this  predic 
tion. 

In  the  salons  more  guests  were  constantly 
arriving.  The  brilliantly  lighted  rooms  were  a 
gay  sight.  Some  professional  was  doing  won 
derful  things  on  the  piano ;  the  young  ladies 
were  contemplating  the  possibility  of  a  dance. 
Fanny  knew  that  an  hour  had  gone  by,  but  she 
managed  to  make  the  time  pass  so  swiftly  that 
even  Mrs.  Pattaker  had  not  begun  to  wonder  at 


St.  Simon's  absence.  In  the  dining-room  the 
claret  and  the  conversation  caused  the  moments 
to  fly  so  pleasantly  that  none  of  the  party  were 
conscious  how  long  they  had  sat  waiting. 

Fanny  was  the  life  and  soul  of  each  group — 
she  seemed  everywhere.  Roland  Spencer  watch 
ed  her  in  silent  wonder  and  pity,  but  she  never 
once  flagged  or  faltered.  It  was  after  ten  o'clock. 
Alleyne  had  not  come.  She  had  been  so  busy 
thinking  of  St.  Simon  that  till  now  she  found  no 
leisure  to  remember  him.  Had  he  heard  ?  She 
must  know  the  worst ;  she  could  not  wait. 

The  Tortoise  and  Lady  Dudgeon  were  dozing 
"comfortably  in  the  boudoir. 

"Where  are  the  poor  souls?"  Fanny  said. 
"I  must  see  that  Lady  Dudgeon  has  some  tea. 
Mr.  Spencer,  please  give  me  your  arm." 

He  led  her  through  the  rooms.  They  reach 
ed  the  boudoir,  where  the  elderly  pair  sat  nod 
ding  at  each  other  like  a  couple  of  strange  pup 
pets  kept  in  motion  by  some  hidden  machinery. 

"Wait  for  me,"  Fanny  said  to  Roland. 

She  seated  herself  at  a  table,  wrote  a  hasty 
note,  rang  the  bell. 

"Some  tea  for  Lady  Dudgeon,"  she  said  to 
the  man.  "  Send  Antoinette  to  Mrs.  St.  Simon 
for  a  moment." 

Roland  approached  her  as  she  stood  waiting. 

"Don't  speak  to  me,"  she  whispered — 
"don't." 

He  retreated ;  began  mechanically  turning  over 
a  book  of  engravings.  Fanny  joined  him. 
Presently  Antoinette  appeared  :  Fanny  gave  her 
the  note,  ordered  her  to  take  a  fiacre  and  go 
herself  to  Alleyne's  hotel ;  see  him,  if  possible ; 
obtain  an  answer  at  all  events.  She  could  trust 
the  old  woman's  fidelity  and  keenness  to  execute 
her  errand. 

"Now,  take  me  back  to  the  people,"  said  Fan 
ny,  putting  her  hand  on  Spencer's  arm.  "We 
must  dance,  I  think ;  you  like  to  dance, Roland." 

He  was  incapable  of  answering ;  he  led  her  on 
in  silence. 

The  music  began  anew ;  Fanny  had  arranged 
for  a  carpet  dance ;  people  had  chosen  partners, 
and  were  taking  their  places. 

Weary  at  last  of  waiting,  Sir  John  and  his 
companions  entered  the  salons;  only  Colonel 
Judd  was  missing.  Important  as  he  considered 
himself,  nobody  appeared  to  notice  his  absence. 
But  just  as  the  music  rang  gayly  out,  he  ap 
peared  in  the  door-way  of  the  principal  salon,  as 
white  and  wrathful  a  man  as  one  could  wish  to 
see. 

"By  the  Eternal,  it  was  true!"  gasped  he. 
"The  officers  are  down- stairs  to  arrest  him 
now." 

Five  minutes  of  utter  confusion  and  horror." 
Away  trooped  the  men  to  see  if  St.  Simon  had 
been  found ;  the  women  fled  to  seek  their  wraps 
— Mrs.  Pattaker  the  loudest  in  objurgations. 

The  Tortoise,  conceiving  an  idea  that  the 


1GG 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


house  was  on  fire,  ran  off,  and  hid  in  her 
chamber.  Fanny  St.  Simon  stood  immovable 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  room.  One  woman  did 
approach  her :  it  was  Helen  Devereux. 

"It  is  some  awful  mistake,"  she  said,  kindly; 
"don't  be  frightened." 

"I  am  not  frightened,"  returned  Fanny,  with 
a  fiery  glance.  "  Don't  you  see  the  people  run 
ning  ?  You'd  better  go  too,  and  escape  contam 
ination." 

It  was  a  pleasure  even  in  this  awful  moment 
to  fling  off  the  disguise  of  the  past  weeks,  and 
let  the  girl  see  the  truth. 

"Indeed,  I  will  not  leave  you  if  you  would 
like  me  to  stay,"  Helen  said,  thinking  only  that 
Fanny  was  half  mad  with  grief  and  fear. 

"  I  would  not  ask  the  sacrifice  for  the  world," 
cried  she.  "Let  them  all  go ;  go  with  them." 

"I  don't  believe  this — I  can't,"  Helen  con 
tinued,  so  full  of  womanly  pity  that  she  did  not 
heed. 

"What  do  you  stand  here  for,  making  pretty 
speeches?"  exclaimed  Fanny.     "You  are  glad, 
and  you  know  it.     You  always  hated  me." 
"Miss  St.  Simon!" 

"There,  there!  Do  you  still  say  you  would 
be  my  brides-maid  ?"  asked  Fanny. 

"  Even  if  the  thing  were  not  a  mistake,  which 
I  am  sure  it  is,  you  would  not  be  to  blame," 
Helen  said,  softly.  "I  should  no  more  think 
of  retracting  my  promise  to  you  than  would  the 
man  who  is  to  be  your  husband." 

The  half-hour  sounded  from  a  gilded  clock  on 
the  mantel.  Fanny  knew  now  that  Alleyne  had 
drawn  back.  The  story  had  reached  him;  he 
had  failed  her ;  so  the  ruin  was  complete.  No 
use  to  cover  her  hate  for  this  woman  with  civil 
words ;  nothing  to  be  gained  longer  by  artifice 
or  lies. 

"How  well  you  put  it !"  she  sneered.  " Bah, 
Helen  Devereux !  do  you  suppose  I  am  deceived  ? 
You  are  glad — glad !  You  think  I  have  lost  him ; 
you  think  you  will  get  back  the  man  who  jilted 
you ;  yes,  jilted  you.  I  know  the  whole  story. 
Why,  I'd  have  thrown  him  over  long  ago,  but 
for  the  pleasure  of  hurting  you." 

Without  a  word,  Helen  Devereux  turned  and 
walked  down  the  room.  Fanny  laughed  aloud ; 
she  was  so  insane  she  could  not  have  checked 
herself,  even  had  she  ruined  her  last  shadow  of 
hope  by  speech. 

"Go!"  she  cried.  "You'll  never  get  him; 
of  that  you  may  be  sure.  Defeated  I  am,  but 
not  quite  powerless.  You  loved  him,  and  he 
jilted  you.  Go!" 

She  stopped  abruptly ;  Helen  had  disappeared. 

Noise   and   confusion   below   stairs :   nobody 

came  near  her.     She  knew  that  St.  Simon  was 

gone. 

She  sat  still  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  apart 
ment,  looking  straight  before  her  with  a  dreary 
gaze. 


Suddenly  Antoinette  entered  quickly,  trem 
bling  with  an  emotion  half  rage,  half  terror. 
Fanny  checked  the  questions  which  began  pour 
ing  from  her  lips. 

"Have  you  an  answer?"  she  demanded. 

Antoinette  placed  a  letter  in  her  hand.  Fan 
ny  motioned  her  out  of  the  room  with  a  gesture 
she  did  not  venture  to  disobey.  The  girl's 
white  fingers  tore  the  envelope  so  roughly  that 
the  inclosure  fell  upon  the  floor.  Fanny  stoop 
ed  and  picked  up  the  paper — glanced  down  the 
page.  It  was  her  own  note,  returned  without  a 
syllable  of  explanation. 

She  laughed  aloud,  then  sunk  back  in  her 
chair,  and  sat  gazing  at  vacancy  with  the  same 
dull,  absorbed  look  in  her  face. 

Again  a  step  crossed  the  outer  salon  ;  preoc 
cupied  as  she  was,  she  heard  it.  Even  in  her 
sullen  despair  she  smiled  at  the  folly  which  had 
caused  her  to  start  at  that  tread — her  insanity 
in  thinking  it  sounded  like  the  one  step  which 
had  ever  possessed  the  power  to  quicken  the 
beating  of  her  heart. 

She  did  not  move  or  turn  toward  the  door,  no 
matter  who  it  might  be.  A  servant  to  put  out 
the  lights,  a  stranger,  or  belated  guest — it  made 
no  difference.  Let  whomsoever  would,  come  and 
stare  at  her ;  nothing  mattered  now. 

She  heard  her  name  called  eagerly, 

"Fanny,  Fanny!" 

She  sprung  to  her  feet  then,  with  a  cry  of 
mingled  incredulity  and  fear,  facing  the  entrance 
as  she  rose. 

Talbot  Castlemaine  stood  before  her  again. 


CHAPTEK  XXXV. 

INTO   THE    GULF. 

FANNY  ST.  SIMON  felt  no  surprise  at  sight  of 
the  man,  little  idea  as  she  had  of  his  being  with 
in  reach  ;  she  was  too  stunned  and  frozen  for 
any  ordinary  sensation.  Nor  was  it  joy  which 
caused  her  suddenly  to  tremble  from  head  to 
foot.  As  she  looked  down  the  room,  and  saw 
him  in  the  door-way,  her  first  impulse  was  fright 
and  dread,  undefined  as  it  was  swift.  Horrible 
fear — of  herself — of  him — of  the  pass  to  which 
life  had  brought  her. 

She  sunk  back  in  her  seat  and  waited.  He- 
stood  an  instant  on  the  threshold,  staring  eager 
ly  about ;  his  eyes  rested  on  the  drooping  figure 
huddled  passively  in  the  great  chair.  Once  more 
he  uttered  her  name — uttered  it  with  a  wild  joy,  a 
triumphant  ring  in  his  voice — and  hurried  toward 
her  with  extended  arms. 

The  fear  passed  —  the  rapid  warning  which 
had  struck  her  soul.  She  remembered  nothing, 
knew  nothing,  cared  for  nothing,  only  that  he 
had  caught  her  to  his  breast,  and  that  he  was 
raining  hot  kisses  on  her  cheeks  and  lips,  whis- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


1G7 


pering  words  of  passionate  love,  gazing  into  her 
eyes  with  that  glance  which,  from  the  first  time 
she  ever  met  it,  had  possessed  the  power  to  fill 
her  soul  with  a  delicious  tumult. 

Only  for  a  little;  her  reason  and  something 
like  strength  came  back.  It  seemed  as  if  some 
extraneous  force  had  suddenly  animated  her  al 
most  against  her  will.  She  had  lost  every  thing 
this  Avorld  had  offered  to  her — wealth,  position ; 
she  was  losing  herself  now.  She  pushed  him 
gently  away. 

"Is  it  really  you,  Talbot?  I  did  not  dream 
of  you  being  near,"  she  said,  speaking  with  a 
quiet  which  formed  au  odd  contrast  to  her  ap 
pearance. 

"I  only  reached  Paris  a  couple  of  hours  ago. 
I  hurried  here  as  soon  as  I  heard  what — " 

"  You  had  heard  it  already  ?"  she  added,  when 
he  hesitated.  "Oh  yes;  I  suppose  every  body 
knows  it  by  this  time." 

"  My  poor  girl — my  poor  Fanny !  That  man 
must  have  been  mad.  I  thought  every  thing 
was  going  so  prosperously  with  him.  It  seems 
to  have  been  all  humbug  —  mine  and  every 
thing." 

"Oh,  there  will  be  people  enough  to  blame 
him;  we  need  not,"  said  Fanny,  impatiently. 
"It  was  not  St.  Simon's  fault  that  the  mine 
failed  ;  it  deceived  every  body.  Other  things,  I 
suppose,  he  has  been  wrong  in.  No  doubt  he 
thought  he  could  replace  the  money.  Poor  St. 
Simon!" 

"  He  is  off  ?    They'll  not  find  him,  you  think  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"And  —  and  —  the  other  one;  that  stately 
bridegroom  of  yours  ;  where  is  he,  Fanny  ?" 

She  laughed  harshly. 

"  Followed  the  rest  of  the  world,"  she  answer 
ed.  "  He  was  to  have  been  here  at  nine  o'clock ; 
he  did  not  come.  You  understand  what  that 
means." 

"The  miserable  cad !"  exclaimed  Castlemaine. 
"  You  are  well  rid  of  him,  at  all  events." 

"  What  brought  you  to  Paris  ?"  she  asked. 
"  Is  your  wife  with  you  ?" 

"  What  do  you  talk  about  her  for  ?"  he  said, 
roughly.  ' '  No,  she's  safe  enough  at  home. 
What  did  I  come  for  ?  I  told  myself  because  I 
was  a  fool — a  stark,  staring  maniac!  To  have 
one  last  look  at  you.  I  believe  I  rather  meant 
to  blow  my  brains  out  after.  But  what  a  blessed 
chance  that  I  came  just  when  you  needed  me ! 
for  the  rest  are  gone :  there's  not  one  of  your 
fine  friends  to  stay  by  you  now." 

"  Not  one,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  all  alone  to  fight 
my  battle  as  I  can.  No,  there  isn't  any  battle 
to  fight ;  it  is  over,  and  I  am  beaten." 

"You  are  not  alone,  Fanny;  you  have  me! 
You  don't  think  I  shall  desert  you  at  this  crisis." 

"You  are  very  good;  but  there  is  nothing 
you  can  do,  Talbot." 

The  color  flamed  into  his  cheeks,  the  light  into 


his  eyes.     He  knelt  before  her,  and  wound  his 
arms  about  her  again. 

"  Come  to  me,"  he  whispered.  "  All  the 
world  is  false,  but  I  am  true.  Come  to  me, 
Fanny.  Oh,  my  darling,  my  love — come!" 

She  sat  passive  fcr  a  little  while.  He  poured 
out  still  wilder  words,  scorching  her  cold  hands 
with  his  kisses. 

"Let  me  go?"  she  cried,  as  again  that  warn 
ing  struck  her  soul,  and  partially  roused  her  from 
the  spell  which  bound  her. 

"Where  would  you  go?"  he  asked,  holding 
her  more  closely. 

"I  don't  know  —  anywhere,"  she  muttered; 
"there  must  be  some  place  where  I  can  hide 
myself." 

"Just  that;  nothing  else  left!"  he  cried. 
"  Oh,  Fanny,  don't  think  me  cruel,  but  you  may 
as  well  look  the  matter  in  the  face.  Not  one  of 
these  miserable  beasts  will  ever  speak  to  you 
again.  The  women  were  all  envious  of  you; 
that  will  make  them  doubly  bitter  now.  That 
coward  has  followed  the  rest  of  the  hounds — '' 

"As  any  other  man  would  have  done,"  she 
interrupted. 

"No,  I  would  not;  you  know  I  would  not, 
Fanny !  If  he  had  stood  firm,  the  business  need 
not  have  affected  you  much.  People  would 
soon  have  forgotten  to  connect  you  with  St.  Si 
mon — " 

"Well,  well,  he  did  not  stand  firm, "she  broke 
in  again.  "It  is  no  use  to  go  over  what  might 
have  been." 

"I'm  a  fool!"  he  exclaimed.  "There  is  so 
much  I  want  to  say,  and  I  have  no  words.  I  love 
you,  Fanny  ;  I  can  prove  true.  There  may  be  a 
whole  life  of  happiness  before  us.  Why  should 
you  go  off  into  poverty  and  solitude  ?  Come 
with  me ;  we'll  find  a  home  in  some  beautiful 
place,  out  of  reach  of  these  worldly  idiots  and 
their  contemptible  laws." 

"Just  that  —  their  laws.  God's  laws,  you 
mean." 

She  could  not  struggle;  she  could  make  no 
effort  to  release  herself  from  his  embrace ;  she 
could  not  so  much  as  lift  her  head  from  his 
shoulder  where  it  had  fallen ;  but  these  words 
rose  to  her  lips,  and  seemed  to  utter  themselves 
without  any  volition  of  her  own. 

"God's  laws,  Talbot;  and  I  believe  in  God, 
and  so  do  you,  and  I  believe  in  heaven  and  hell,  . 
and  I  can't  let  you  drag  us  both  down  into  the 
darkness.     I  don't  care  for  myself,  but  you— 
you ! " 

"  Think  what  your  life  will  be,"  he  continued. 
"Why,  how  will  you  live?" 

"  I  am  not  afraid— I  could  work.  I  have  often 
thought  that  any  thing— toil,  beggary— would  be 
better  than  the  life  I  had  chosen.  Each  day,  ns 
the  time  for  my  marriage  came  nearer,  I  thought 
it  more  and  more.  Let  the  world  go— what  do 
I  care?  I  wonder  now  that  I  cared  so  much. 


168 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


At  least,  in  all  this  horror  and  degradation  I  am 
free — free ! " 

"Think-  how  I  love  you,  Fanny;  you  know, 
you  know!  Look  back  over  those  weeks  we 
spent  together  this  summer— such  dear  weeks ! 
Think  of  our  Italian  days.  Happiness  is  once 
more  within  our  reach  :  oh,  we  should  be  mad 
to  throw  it  away  for  scruples  that  are  only  of 
men's  devising.  Darling,  darling!  look  at  me 
— speak  to  me !  You  can't  go — you  sha'n't  go ! 
You  love  me — you  do  love  me !  All  my  heart 
and  soul  are  yours  I  I  would  accept  cheerfully 
a  whole  eternity  of  torture  just  for  one  kiss  from 
your  dear  lips — one  loving  word. " 

Ay,  now  he  moved  her;  he  had  struck  the 
right  chord !  When  he  talked  of  his  love,  she 
forgot  every  thing  but  his  voice  and  presence. 
The  horrible  suffering  that  succeeded  those  weeks 
spent  in  his  society  had  left  her  feeble.  The  aw 
ful  catastrophe  under  which  the  future  had  so 
suddenly  crumbled  in  ruins  at  her  feet  rendered 
her  still  more  reckless  and  insane. 

He  loved  her — he  loved  her!  In  the  whole 
world  she  had  nothing  save  him  !  Position  gone 
— respectability  gone  too  ;  no  way  open  but  one 
— no  hope  but  one — his  love. 

She  was  thinking  this  while  he  hurried  on  in 
passionate  speech ;  thinking  it  vaguely,  in  the 
enervating  delight  of  having  him  close  beside 
her.  Yet,  even  as  she  listened,  another  thought 
sprung  into  her  mind — a  picture,  rather.  Fasten 
her  eyes  on  his  features  as  she  would,  blinded 
and  deafened  to  all  reason  and  better  instincts 
as  she  was  by  his  voice,  she  saw  it  always — that 
picture. 

Gustave  Dore's  painting  of  "Paulo  and  Fran- 
cesca  in  Hell."  The  artist  himself,  in  the  most 
absorbing  moment  of  inspiration,  never  beheld 
those  faces  more  clearly  than  she  saw  them  in 
their  wondrous  beauty  and  remorse.  It  was  as 
if  the  two  ghosts  had  come  straight  out  of  the 
depths  to  warn  her ;  she  thought  that  too.  And 
all  the  while  Talbol's  pleadings  sounded  in  her 
ears ;  Talbot's  kisses  burned  on  her  cheeks  and 
lips. 

"  Come  with  me,  Fanny — come !" 

"I  will  not  go," she  answered.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  her  voice  rose  to  an  absolute  shriek,  but 
it  was  barely  audible.  "I  will  not  go !  I  don't 
care  for  myself — but  you!" 

He  released  her  and  started  to  his  feet.  She 
sunk  back  in  her  chair  and  stared  at  him.  He 
would  leave  her  too — she  was  alone !  Just  to 
lose  the  pressure  of  his  arms  smote  her  with  a 
mortal  chill — the  chill  in  which  she  must  hence 
forth  exist. 

"Answer  me  one  question  and  I'll  go!"  he 
cried.  "Do  you  love  me?  It  is  not  too  much 
to  admit.  If  you  will  condemn  us  both  to  mis 
ery,  let  me  at  least  take  that  thought  with  me. 
Do  you  love  me  ?" 

One  quick  gesture,  then  her  hands  drooped 


into  her  lap  again.  For  the  first  time  a  few 
great  tears  rolled  scalding  down  her  cheeks. 
There  he  stood  in  that  beauty  which  seemed  as 
if  it  must  be  eternal — stood  like  a  human  type 
of  the  great  archangel  who  fell  through  sin  and 
pride.  And  she  might  belong  to  him — might 
have  such  love  and  happiness  as  common  mor 
tals  cou!&  'not  even  dream  !  And  what  stopped 
her  ?  Old  creeds,  weak  sophistries,  men's  laws  ! 
And  he  was  speaking  all  the  while — words  at 
once  tender  and  reproachful,  which  stung  her 
heart  with  a  bitter  pain  that  no  other  human 
being's  harshest  or  most  just  condemnation  could 
have  caused. 

"You  do  love  me,  you  can't  deny  it!  Yon 
are  letting  what  is  called  pride,  respectability,  a 
dozen  things  that  have  only  a  name,  stand  be 
tween  us.  You  are  sacrificing  us  both  to  them ! 
I  have  no  life  except  as  you  share  it — I  will  have 
none.  I'll  never  go  back  to  the  accursed  bond 
age  of  the  past  months  —  never!  I  am  going 
away — off  to  Greece — Egypt — as  far  as  I  can  get 
from  this  dull  old  narrow  world  I  am  weary  of. 
You  wrong  no  one  by  sharing  my  fate.  I  menn 
to  have  my  freedom — I  will  have  it.  I  told  you 
I  was  going — I'll  go;  we  shall  never  see  each 
other  again ! " 

"Talbot,  Talbot!" 

"Perhaps  you  will  find  something  that  can 
compensate  for  the  happiness  you  refuse — a  life 
just  for  ns  two — the  protection  of  my  love. 
Take  it,  if  the  prospect  pleases  you ;  go  fight 
your  battle,  if  you  think  it  worth  fighting.  You 
hate  and  scorn  the  world,  yet  you  are  afraid  of 
it.  YQU  know  this  day's  exposure  has  set  you 
outside 'its  pale — you  can  never  get  back;  still 
you  are  afraid ! " 

"  Talbot,  Talbot !"  Only  that  despairing  cry 
in  answer  to  his  cruel  words,  but  he  went  on  un 
heeding — not  acting — not  trying  to  tempt  her — 
mad  with  this  passion  which  consumed  his  soul. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  will  do!  Perhaps 
you'll  beg  and  entreat  that  hound  to  marry  you. 
You  hate  him,  but  you  want  to  be  reinstated 
among  the  people  you  despise." 

"I  would  die  a  thousand  deaths  first!"  she 
gasped.  "If  he  were  to  repent  —  if  he  stood 
here  now  begging  me  to  marry  him,  I  would  not 
doit!" 

"You  are  sending  me  away," he  continued; 
"this  time  it  is  forever;  I  shall  not  come  back. 
There  must  be  some  way  of  making  my  life  a 
short  one;  I  am  not  talking  about  suicide — 
that's  too  idiotic !  But  one  can  wear  out  bodily 
strength  pretty  fast  when  one's  soul  is  burning 
up.  Oh,  Fanny,  Fanny,  and  we  might  be  so 
happy !  I  love  you — I  love  you !  Think  of  our 
life  away  from  this  wretched  Europe — a  whole 
new  world !  But  you'll  not  have  it — you  don't 
want  it!  Oh,  my  God!  You  have  broken  my 
heart — you  have  driven  me  mad — and  you  pro 
fess  to  love  me !" 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


169 


He  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by  her  chair, 
and  hid  his  face.  She  could  not  bear  his  agony 
— she  could  not  struggle  longer.  She  put  her 
two  arms  about  his  neck  —  she  laid  her  cheek 
down  on  his  golden  curls. 

"  I'll  go ! "  she  said,  slowly—' '  I'll  go !  I'll  do 
just  what  you  tell  me ;  don't  be  unhappy — I'll 
go!"  * 

"  My  own — my  own !" 

She  shrunk  away  when  he  tried  to  clasp  her 
anew  in  his  arms. 

"Don't!"  she  moaned — "don't!  You  look 
so  glad — so  horribly  glad !" 

She  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes,  op 
pressed  by  a  deathly  faintness.  She  felt  his 
touch  again,  his  breath  warm  on  her  cheek. 

"I  shall  go  crazy  if  you  stay," she  said,  in 
the  same  strained  voice.  "I  have  promised — 
isn't  that  enough  ?" 

She  saw  the  two  faces  still — the  beautiful,  de 
spairing  faces  which  had  come  out  of  hell  to 
warn  her.  But  they  were  less  distinct  now ; 
they  were  floating  slowly  away — slowly  away; 
their  hopeless  eyes  still  fixed  upon  her,  full  of 
an  added  pain  because  the  warning  had  so  ut 
terly  failed. 

"Fanny!"  cried  Castlemaine,  in  alarm. 
"Don't  look  so !  You  are  tired — ill — this  night's 
business  has  been  too  much  for  you.  See  —  I 
am  here!  I  love  you — only  think  of  that — I 
love  you!" 

She  turned  her  gaze  upon  him  with  the  ghost 
of  her  glorious  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  You  are  very  good," she  sighed.  "You  are 
not  angry  now — you  are  not  going  to  leave  me  ? 
I  have  promised,  you  know. " 

"And  you  will  not  hesitate  —  you  are  too 
brave  for  that,  my  beautiful." 

"I  have  promised,"  she  said,  in  a  hollow  tone. 
"  Is  it  time ;  ought  we  to  go  at  once  ?" 

"Not  till  to-morrow;  you  must  get  to  bed 
and  sleep !  See — it  is  easy  to  arrange ;  try  to 
listen.  Now,  then,  lay  your  head  on  my  shoul 
der — lean  on  me — so ! " 

She  let  him  draw  her  toward  him ;  the  lips  he 
kissed  were  cold  as  death ;  but  her  dim,  blurred 
eyes  were  full  of  love — the  love  which  had  ruined 
her  life.  Through  all  her  weakness  and  faint- 
ness  she  could  realize  in  a  way  what  she  was 
about  to  do,  but  it  did  not  matter.  She  would 
not  have  cared  if  she  had  been  following  those 
phantom  shapes  down  into  eternal  pain ;  she 
should  be  with  him — she  should  be  with  him  1 

"Are  you  listening,  darling?"  he  asked. 

She  patted  his  hand  with  her  icy  fingers — she 
could  not  speak. 

"  I  had  told  M ,  I  had  told  them  in  En- 

gland  I  was  going  away  for  several  months  ;  my 
yacht  is  at  Marseilles.  To-morrow  morning 
early,  take  the  train  to  Fontainebleau ;  nobody 
need  know  where  you  have  gone.  It  is  only  for 
you  I  care,  beloved — you  are  sure  of  that  ?" 


She  pressed  his  hand  again.  It  was  true,  and 
she  knew  it ;  he  was  too  utterly  reckless  to  heed 
the  world's  verdict,  or  attempt  any  concealment 
on  his  own  behalf. 

"I  have  business  which  will  take  me  all  the 
morning — arrangements  about  money,  so  that  I 
need  not  come  back  for  years  and  years.  Why 
do  you  start  ?  What  is  it,  Fanny  ?" 

"Nothing;  I'm  tired — nervous.  I'll  not  be 
so  silly  again.  I  have  promised,  you  know. " 

She  uttered  the  words  slowly,  and  with  diffi 
culty.  Why  had  she  started  ?  As  plainly  as 
she  saw  his  face — oh,  more  plainly !  for,  bend  as 
close  to  him  as  she  would,  there  seemed  to  come 
a  mist  between — she  saw  the  two  beautiful,  de 
spairing  phantoms  pause  at  the  door,  and  stare 
back  upon  her.  Her  soul  heard  their  souls' 
voices  in  that  speech  which  has  no  mortal  words, 
"Always  with  us  now — always!" 

She  shut  her  eyes ;  she  pressed  her  head 
down  on  Talbot's  breast  till  the  tumultuous 
throbs  of  his  fiery  heart  dizzied  her  brain  anew. 

"You  hear  me,  Fanny!  You  will  wait  at 
Fontainebleau  ;  I  shall  come  by  one  of  the  after 
noon  trains ;  we  can  go  on  together  in  the  night 
express." 

A  quick  hysterical  spasm  shook  her;  she 
laughed  and  groaned,  her  features  contorted 
somewhat ;  he  cried  out  in  terror. 

"It  is  nothing — I'm  tired — only — only — I 
laugh  —  we  were  going  there  —  he  and  I  —  he 
and  I." 

"So  much  the  better!  Think  while  you 
are  waiting  for  me  what  misery  you  have  been 
spared.  It  is  a  good  omen,  my  darling. " 

She  was  quite  composed  in  a  few  moments ; 
he  had  brought  her  some  water.  She  could 
scarcely  swallow  at  first ;  then  drank  eagerly, 
conscious  of  a  raging  thirst,  chilled  and  stony 
as  she  felt  to  her  very  heart. 

"  You'll  not  be  ill— " 

"  No,  no !     I  shall  be  strong  in  the  morning." 

' '  Together — always  together !  Think  of  that 
— say  it  over  and  over!" 

More  mad  words,  more  passionate  utterances. 
He  repeated  his  explanations,  held  her  in  his 
arms  again,  heard  anew  her  promise,  then  went 
away. 

As  he  descended  the  stairs,  Antoinette  was 
speaking  to  some  gentleman  in  the  entrance  hall. 
Castlemaine  hurried  past  without  noticing  that  it 
was  any  one  he  knew,  but  Roland  Spencer  rec 
ognized  him. 

"Miss  St.  Simon  must  still  be  in  the  salon," 
he  said  to  the  old  woman,  and  darted  by  her  be 
fore  she  coulJ  expostulate. 

Fanny  was  sitting  where  Castlemaine  had  left 
her — not  frightened— not  remorseful.  She  look 
ed  about;  the  phantom  faces  had  disappeared. 
She  was  very,  very  tired.  There  was  a  good 
deal  to  do  before  she  slept — all  sorts  of  common 
place  things ;  she  tried  to  fix  her  mind  upon 


170 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


them.  Her  trunks  must  be  packed ;  the  house, 
of  course,  was  guarded ;  but  no  one  would  hin 
der  her  departure.  Pertinaciously  she  fastened 
her  thoughts  on  the  merest  trifles.  She  must 
not  forget  that  gown  Talbot  had  admired  in  the 
summer!  She  would  take  two  boxes;  they 
would  hold  every  thing.  Still  she  looked  drear 
ily  about ;  but  there  was  nothing  there  ;  she  was 
alone. 

Roland  Spencer  entered  quickly;  she  saw 
him — this  noble  soul  who  believed  in  her — who 
had  faith  in  her  honesty  and  truth — who  was 
her  friend  always,  though  she  had  hurt  his  heart 
so  cruelly.  Oh,  she  would  rather  that  all  the 
ghosts  from  Hades  should  come  to  haunt  her, 
than  have  been  forced  to  meet  his  eyes  now ! 

"You  ought  not  to  be  up,"  he  said.  "I 
came  back  to  know  how  you  were — to  ask  An 
toinette  if  there  was  any  thing  I  could  do." 

"It  was  like  you,  my  good  boy!"  she  answer 
ed,  softly.  ' '  I  am  going  to  bed ;  I  am  tired. " 

"What  did  that  man  want?"  he  asked,  ab 
ruptly.  ' '  Fanny,  keep  Talbot  Castlemaine  away 
from  you  now." 

She  shivered  slightly,  but  there  was  neither 
confusion  nor  betrayal  in  face  or  voice. 

"You  were  very  good  to  come,  Roland, "she 
said  ;  "  very  good." 

"I  went  to  Alleyne's  hotel;  I  could  not  see 
him.  His  man  was  not  to  be  found,  and  the  stu 
pid  people  in  the  bureau  said  no  one  could  go  to 
his  rooms." 

Fanny  laughed. 

"  Have  you  sent  ?  have  you  heard  from  him  ?" 

She  glanced  about  for  the  note  which  had 
been  returned  to  her — saw  it  lying  crumpled  on 
the  floor  near  her  chair. 

"Look  at  that,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
paper. 

He  picked  it  up — read  the  hurried  lines. 

"Why  didn't  you  send  it ?" he  asked.  "  You 
know  he  has  been  at  Fontainebleau  all  day ;  it 
was  late  when  he  got  back ;  he  could  not  have 
heard  what  had  happened  ;  he  would  have  come 
at  once." 

Again  she  laughed ;  the  low,  mirthless  sound 
troubled  him. 

' '  My  foolish  Roland ! "  she  said.  '  '•  Don't  you 
understand?  I  sent  my  note  to  Mr.  Alleyne; 
that  was  what  he  sent  back.  He  had  heard;  this 
is  his  answer." 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  Roland.  "He 
could  not  have  meant  it ;  there  must  be  some 
horrible  mistake.  I'll  go  to  the  hotel.  I'll  see 
him,  if  I  have  to  burn  the  house  down !" 

"There  is  no  reason  for  seeing  him,"  she 
replied.  "He  has  done  what  most  men  would. 
I  don't  blame  him.  He  could  not  marry  me 
now  —  he,  the  respectable  gentleman,  the  rich 
land-holder.  Oh,  he  could  not  marry  a  crimi 
nal's  niece ! " 

"  Fanny,  I  don't  believe  it — there  is  some  mis 


take  !"  cried  Roland.  "Alleyne  is  a  man  ;  only 
a  brute,  a  devil,  could  behave  like  this." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  he  is !"  she  answered, 
impatiently. 

"I'll  find  him!  If  it  is  true  that  he  means 
to  behave  so  like  an  infernal  scoundrel,  I'll  cut 
his  heart  out  with — " 

The  words  came  hissingly  from  between  his 
clenched  teeth.  He  checked  himself.  This 
talk  was  like  that  of  a  person  who  meant  to  be 
content  with  dramatic  words,  and  Roland  meant 
to  do  just  what  he  had  said. 

"I  don't  want  him," pursued  Fanny,  in  the 
same  absent  voice.  "  I'm  glad  he  saved  me  the 
trouble  of  saying  I  would  not  marry  him — glad 
to  know  he  is  mean.  I  hate  him !  I  always 
hated  him !  At  least  I  am  free  now ;  I  am 
free." 

There  was  neither  fire  nor  energy  in  her 
voice;  somehow  the  half- apathetic  manner  in 
which  she  said  the  words  gave  them  added  force. 

"That  alters  nothing  where  he  is  concerned. 
He  had  a  plain  duty,"  Roland  began;  but  she 
stopped  him. 

"Dear  old  boy,"  she  said,  "you  have  always 
been  good  to  me  ;  will  you  do  me  one  last  fa 
vor  ?  give  me  one  last  promise  ?" 

She  understood  what  he  purposed  to  do ;  she 
knew  he  would  carry  out  his  intention  if  she  did 
not  prevent  it.  She  wondered  that  she  cared  ; 
but  she  did.  This  boy  should  run  no  risk  for 
her  sake.  She  could  not  be  damned  more  irrev 
ocably  than  by  the  step  she  was  about  to  take. 
Nothing  mattered ;  still  she  would  always  have 
it  in  her  mind  that  she  had  not  allowed  him  to 
incur  danger  for  her. 

"I'll  promise  you  any  thing,"  he  said;  "do 
any  thing  you  want  me  to.  You  can't  think  I 
would  hesitate  ?" 

His  blood  was  boiling  at  the  insult  which  had 
been  put  upon  her  in  her  helplessness  by  this 
man.  She  wanted  his  punishment.  Oh,  she 
should  have  it ! 

"You  have  promised,"  she  said.  "Never 
quarrel  with  Gregory  Alleyne  on  any  pretext ; 
never  go  near  him.  I  don't  want  revenge  ;  he 
is  nothing  to  me.  I  tell  you  I  would  not  marry 
him.  If  this  trouble  had  not  come,  I  believe  I 
should  have  drawn  back  at  the  last  moment. 
At  least  I  am  free — free ! " 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do  now, Fanny?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh,  I  shall  do  well  enough,  well  enough,'' 
she  replied,  in  the  same  dulled  way.  "Don't 
bother  about  me.  It  is  late,  Roland.  Say  good 
bye  ;  you  will  never  say  it  to  me  any  more." 

"Never  say  it  any  more  ?"  he  repeated,  in  be 
wilderment.  "Where  are  you  going?  You 
mustn't  follow  St.  Simon  ;  it  would  be  madness. 
He  is  sure  to  get  off,  I  suppose  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  he  continued.     "  Of 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


171 


course  you  must  go  away  at  once,  you  and  the 
poor  helpless  wife.  Have — have  you  money  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of. 
We  don't  need  any;  and  it  is  my  money.  I 
have  a  right  to  it — not  stolen,  you  understand." 

"You  must  not  be  cast  down,"  he  said ;  "you 
are  not  to  blame.  Each  man  or  woman  has  to 
live  for  him  or  her  self.  St.  Simon's  sin  touches 
you  no  more  than  me.  Forget  it ;  put  him  out 
of  your  life.  No  creature  with  heart  or  decency 
could  do  any  thing  but  sympathize  with  you." 

"  Sympathy — I  should  get  a  great  deal  of  that ! 
Don't  deceive  yourself,  Roland ;  I  should  be  shun 
ned  like  a  pariah,  hunted  like  a  leper,  if  I  did 
not  hide  myself  securely." 

"You  are  wrong,  Fanny.  Why,  if  that  cow 
ard,  that  fiend,  had  stood  by  you  as  he  ought — " 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  want  him.  If  he  had  been 
true,  I'd  not  have  dragged  him  down." 

"  You  feel  so  because  of  your  dislike.  I  told 
you,  Fanny,  how  wrong  it  was  to  marry  him. 
But  think ;  if  a  man  loved  you,  toward  whom 
you  felt  kindness  and  friendship,  who  would  be 
patient  and  true,  who  would  earn  your  affection 
by  his  devotedness !  Fanny,  married  to  such  a 
man  you  would  be  protected  and  safe." 

He  spoke  rapidly,  his  color  coming  and  going. 
His  love  for  this  woman  had  been  the  one  passion 
of  his  youth.  The  fervent  idolatry  had  changed 
somewhat,  but  he  pitied  her  so  sincerely  that  his 
sympathy  brought  up  a  tenderness  which  left  him 
ready  to  accept  any  worldly  sacrifice  for  her  sake, 
in  this  her  hour  of  need. 

She  heard  his  words,  but  they  conveyed  slight 
meaning  to  her.  She  was  djjll,  worn  out,  could 
only  hear  sounds  half  like  Castlemaine's  voice, 
half  like  the  Eastern  breeze  blowing  over  the  en 
chanted  land  of  which  he  had  talked. 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Fanny,"  Roland  continued. 
"  I  never  meant  to  trouble  you  with  such  words 
again  ;  but  I  ask  you  to  marry  me." 

She  heard  this;  she  started  up  erect  in  her 
chair. 

"  My  God !"  she  muttered.  "  He  asks  me  to 
marry  him — me ! " 

"  I  do  ask  you,  Fanny.  I  think  I  can  make 
your  life  happier  than  it  will  be  in  the  loneliness 
to  which  you  mean  to  condemn  yourself.  I  have 
always  loved  you.  I  had  never  cared  for  any 
woman  till  I  saw  you.  During  these  months, 
when  such  love  was  a  weakness,  a  sin,  I  tried 
hard  to  root  it  out  of  my  heart.  I  thought  I 
had  succeeded ;  birt  now — now  that  I  see  you  in 
trouble,  it  all  comes  back.  I  know  I  deceived 
myself;  it  has  always  been  there." 

"He  loves  me!  he  loves  me!"  she  only 
moaned. 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  trust  yourself  to  me,"  he 
pursued.  "  I  will  be  so  patient ;  I  will  teach 
you  to  like  me — I  am  sure  I  can.  Why,  dear, 
it  would  be  much  better  than  bearing  this  trou 
ble  by  yourself.  Come  to  me,  Fanny.  «Let  us 


waste  no  time.  For  your  own  sake,  it  would  be 
better  you  should  marry  me  at  once." 

"Oh,  stop,  stop!"  she  groaned.  "I'm  bad 
enough,  wicked  enough,  but  I  couldn't  do  that — 
I  couldn't  do  that !  God  bless  you,  Roland !  Let 
me  kiss  your  hand ;  let  me  kneel  to  you  ;  let  me 
thank  you ;  but  I'm  not  bad  enough  for  that." 

She  was  on  her  knees  before  him  so  suddenly 
that  he  could  not  prevent  her.  Inexpressibly 
shocked,  he  raised  her  and  forced  her  back  into 
her  chair. 

"  You  are  out  of  your  senses,"  he  cried.  "  For 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  do  that !" 

"  Yes,  that  is  it ;  always  say  that  to  yourself; 
promise  me !  Oh,  Roland,  go  away.  Don't 
stand  there  looking  at  me  ;  don't !" 

She  flung  up  her  hands  and  moaned  aloud,  but 
the  hysterical  spasm  passed  as  quickly  as  it  had 
come.  Before  he  could  do  more  than  rush 
frantically  about,  imploring  her  to  be  calm,  she 
was  leaning  back,  quite  composed. 

"Say  good-bye,  Roland,"  she  said,  holding  out 
her  hand. 

"I  ought  to  go.  I  was  a  brute  to  tease  you 
to-night,"  she  replied.  "  I'll  come  in  the  morn- 
ing.  You  will  think  of  what  I  have  said,  Fanny  ? 
You  will  try  to  like  me  well  enough  to  give  me  the 
right  to  care  for  and  protect  you  all  my  life?" 

"Good-bye,  Roland,"  she  said;  "it  is  for 
ever." 

' '  You  reffcse  ?  You  will  not  ?  You  can  not  ?" 
he  cried. 

"I  can  not.  Don't  say  any  more,  Roland. 
I  wish  I  could  thank  you.  I  wish  you  could 
know  how  I  honor  and  venerate  you.  Oh,  Ro 
land,  Roland!" 

"  Fanny,"  he  exclaimed,  while  a  sudden  vague 
dread  shot  up  in  his  heart,  "why  do  you  speak 
so  ?  There  is  worse  than  this  trouble  St.  Simon 
has  brought  on  you.  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  can't  talk  any  more,"  she  said.  "  Go,  go ! 
Wait ;  give  me  your  hand,  Roland. " 

He  went  close  to  her,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
hers. 

"The  dear  hand,  "she  murmured,  softly  ;  "  the 
hand  of  a  true,  honest  man.  I  did  not  think  there 
was  one  left."  She  stooped  her  head  as  if  about 
to  kiss  it,  then  drew  back  with  a  shudder.  "  I 
mustn't  do  that ;  I  mustn't  do  that." 

She  was  so  utterly  exhausted,  so  like  a  person 
whose  senses  were  positively  tottering  from  terri 
ble  mental  excitement  and  bodily  fatigue,  that  he 
knew  it  would  be  only  cruel  to  remain. 

"I  shall  come  back  in  the  morning,"  he  said. 
"  Good-night,  now." 

He  went  softly  away,  stopping  down-stairs  to 
find  Antoinette  and  bid  her  get  her  mistress  to 
rest.  * 

Fanny  let  him  go.  As  he  was  disappearing 
behind  the  draperies  of  the  door- way,  she  had  an 
impulse  to  call  him  back,  to  tell  him  the  wholo 
truth.  But  she  let  him  go. 


172 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


She  rose  and  walked  steadily  out  of  the  room ; 
met  Antoinette,  and  asked  about  the  Tortoise, 
whom  she  had  forgotten.  Antoinette  had  put  her 
to  bed  long  ago;  madame  was  fast  asleep. 
Mademoiselle  must  go  now. 

"I  have  a  good  deal  to  do  first, "Fanny  an 
swered.  "Come  to  my  room." 

The  old  body  was  rather  taciturn  for  a  French 
woman,  and  wearied  Fanny  little  with  talk,  even 
when  the  young  lady  astonished  her  by  bidding 
her  help  pack  the  boxes. 

"  There  is  no  need  to-night,"  Antoinette  said. 
"We  must  leave  this  house,  of  course;  but 
there's  no  hurry." 

"I  am  going  on  a  journey,"  said  Fanny. 
"You  must  ask  no  questions;  you  must  tell  no 
one  any  thing  about  me." 

"And  mademoiselle's  wedding,  and  ma- 
dame?" 

"  There  will  be  no  wedding,  Antoinette." 

Antoinette  threatened  to  become  voluble ;  but 
Fanny  went  on,  unheeding. 

"  You  must  promise  me  to  stay  with  madame ; 
you  are  good  and  kind ;  you  will  be  faithful. 
You  will  go  to-morrow  and  hire  an  apartment 
near  Paris.  You  like  Montmorenci ;  go  there. 
Madame  will  receive  money  every  three  months." 

"But  how  long  before  mademoiselle  will  re 
turn  ?" 

' '  I  don't  know ;  ask  no  questions.  Do  you 
promise  to  do  what  I  want  ?" 

"Of  course.  I  have  been  for  years  with  ma 
dame  ;  why  should  I  change  ?  I  am  too  old  a 
bird  to  like  strange  nests." 

"That  is  right ;  I  thought  you  would  say  that. 
Now  I  want  to  get  ready  such  things  as  I  mean 
to  take." 

"And  mademoiselle's  trousseau,  all  the  new, 
beautiful  things — " 

"  Whatever  has  come  I  shall  order  taken  back. 
I  have  clothes  enough  which  are  paid  for,  without 
taking  those  that  are  not." 

It  was  past  three  o'clock  when  the  necessary 
preparations  were  ended.  The  last  thing  Fanny 
did  was  to  write  to  the  Englishwoman  who  had 
brought  her  stocks,  and  make  over  to  her  order 
the  ten  thousand  pounds. 

Then  she  lay  down  on  her  bed  and  slept  sound 
ly  for  several  hours,  as  men  sleep  when  the  dawn 
of  their  execution  is  at  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"HOW    SHALL    I    TELL?" 

IT  was  very  late  when  Gregory  Alleyne  per 
suaded  himself  out  of  bed  th'e  next  morning. 
Usually  he  was  an  early  man,  having  acquired 
the  habit  during  the  years  which  he  had  devoted 
to  business.  I  observe  we  always  employ  that 
formula,  "acquired  the  habit,"  in  speaking  of 


people  given  to  emulating  the  lark — the  surest 
proof  in  the  world  that  it  is  a  practice  against 
nature.  In  general,  too,  it  is  a  habit  which  does 
not  grow  easily,  any  more  than  the  taste  for 
smoking  or  burning  one's  interior  with  cayenne 
and  hot  sauces,  or  other  among  what  are  termed 
depraved  practices. 

This  morning  Gregory  Alleyne  allowed  the 
Old  Adam  to  subdue  him,  and  slept  till  late,  as 
the  fiercest  Spartan  might  be  excused  for  doing 
after  that  intolerable  malady  yclept  sick-head 
ache. 

The  previous  day  had  been  gloomy  indeed — 
to  a  degree  beyond  what  could  be  accounted  for 
by  the  storm  and  exterior  unpleasantness.  The 
gloom  came  from  within ;  nor  could  physical 
pain  be  called  on  to  bear  the  entire  onus.  He 
had  attended  to  his  affairs,  thinking  that  after 
all  there  was  nothing  which  might  not  have  been 
relegated  to  an  agent.  He  had  gone  over  the 
villa  with  the  talkative  proprietor;  settled  the 
last  trifling  arrangement;  seen  that  the  altera 
tions  he  desired  were  complete.  A  pretty  suite 
of  apartments ;  a  place  where  one  might  have 
spent  even  a  longer  season  than  a  honey-moon 
without  wearying  of  it.  The  salons,  the  boudoir, 
the  salle  a  manger,  even  one  of  the  bedrooms, 
gave  upon  the  green  recesses  of  the  famous  for 
est,  which  looked  dismal  enough  in  the  gray 
light,  but  would  be  beautiful  during  the  bright 
ness  of  the  late  autumn. 

Alleyne  got  rid  of  the  voluble  proprietor — a 
bandy-legged  Gaul,  with  blue  spectacles,  a  wash 
ed-out  appearance,  and  a  voice  like  a  cracked 
dinner-bell — and  sat  down  in  the  tiny  boudoir, 
which  had  been  refurnished  with  as  close  an  at 
tention  to  Fanny  St.  Simon's  tastes  as  if  she 
were  expected  to  pass  years  there  instead  of 
three  or  four  weeks  at  the  most. 

The  room  reminded  him  of  her ;  he  had  suc 
ceeded  well  in  the  carrying-out  of  his  design. 
He  could  easily  fancy  her  changeful,  capricious 
beauty  adorning  the  spot ;  and  he  began  to  won 
der  how  it  would  seem  when  they  did  actually  sit 
face  to  face,  the  new  life  begun,  the  intimate 
union  which  only  death  could  sever. 

He  hoped  he  had  done  the  best  possible  for 
her  and  himself;  he  had  meant  to  act  rightly. 
It  would  not  be  just  to  say  there  were  doubts 
and  fears  in  his  mind ;  yet,  beneath  his  most 
cheerful  thoughts  during  the  past  weeks  there 
had  swept  an  under-current  of  restlessness  which 
possessed  these  elements.  He  knew  that  he  had 
been  precipitate  in  entering  into  this  engagement. 
He  was  a  little  ashamed  of  a  certain  weakness 
which  he  had  shown.  He  had  yielded  rather  to 
a  strange  fascination  than  to  his  reason.  But  it 
was  not  of  this  he  thought  so  much,  nor  of  the 
consciousness — a  consciousness  which  stung  and 
galled  him — that  the  dream  of  early  manhood 
yet  asserted  its  power.  If  he  had  erred,  he  must 
pay  the  "penalty ;  if  he  suffered,  at  least  Fanny 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


173 


must  not  suffer,  or  ever  be  troubled  by  this  old 
folly  of  his.  Still,  it  was  for  her  he  felt  anxious 
now.  He  perceived  a  great  change  in  her  since 
his  return  from  America.  In  spite  of  her  artful 
ness,  she  had  not  wholly  concealed  from  him  her 
struggles,  and  indeed  there  had  been  times  when 
she  was  inclined,  as  we  know,  to  throw  off  all 
disguises,  give  up  her  coveted  prize  even  then. 

Alleyne  was  too  sensitive  a  man  not  to  be 
acutely  affected  by  the  moral  atmosphere  of  those 
about  him.  He  felt  that  Fanny  St.  Simon  was 
not  happy ;  and  though  he  tried  to  accept  the 
explanations  she  gave,  he  found  it  difficult.  As 
he  sat  in  that  silent  apartment,  going  over  the 
events  of  the  past  year,  this  under-current  of 
doubt  and  dread  became  powerful  and  strong. 
Altogether  it  was  a  hard  day ;  and  when  the 
physical  pain  added  itself  to  the  mental  disquie 
tude,  he  was  so  worn  and  miserable  that  nothing 
but  bed  and  entire  repose  could  be  thought  of. 

He  was  up  now  and  dressed ;  had  taken  his 
coffee,  and  was  looking  out  down  the  busy  street, 
down  into  the  Plsfce  Vendome,  where  the  sun 
light,  watery  and  uncertain  still,  played  about 
the  shattered  base,  which  once  supported  the  fa 
mous  column  and  the  great  emperor's  statue. 

The  clocks  were  striking  eleven.  He  would 
go  and  see  Fanny  as  soon  as  possible ;  but  he 
could  not  well  do  that  before  twelve.  He  had 
not  read  the  papers.  When  he  rose,  his  head  still 
felt  dizzy  from  the  severe  pain  of  the  preceding 
night.  The  first  journal  he  opened  was  the  Lon 
don  Standard  of  the  preceding  day ;  the  first 
paragraph  which  chanced  to  meet  his  eye,  some 
thing  in  regard  to  the  Nevada  mine.  He  was 
inclined  to  suppose  it  the  work  of  some  one  with 
a  personal  reason  for  trying  to  injure  St.  Simon. 
He  took  up  a  Paris  paper,  and  came  upon  the 
account  of  the  awful  catastrophe  and  exposure 
of  the  previous  night.  There  was  scarcely  a  mo 
ment  given  to  the  paralyzing  horror  and  sudden 
ness  of  the  thing.  His  thought  was  of  Fanny ; 
he  understood  now  why  she  had  sent  for  him. 
He  hurried  out  of  the  house,  hailed  a  fiacre, 
and  the  coachman,  animated  by  the  promise  of  a 
double  pour-boire,  urged  his  horse  to  the  best  of 
his  speed  along  the  Rue  ,de  Rivoli  and  up  the 
Champs  ^llys^es. 

They  turned  into  the  street  where  the  St.  Si 
mons  lived,  and  stopped  before  the  entrance  to 
the  house.  A  brace  of  policemen  were  lounging 
near ;  they  looked  sharply  after  Alleyne,  but  that 
was  all.  He  passed  through  the  porte-cochere, 
across  the  court,  and  reached  the  entrance  doors. 
Old  Antoinette  appeared  in  answer  to  his  ring. 
She  was  dressed  in  her  Sunday  attire,  and  had 
on  her  most  pointed  cap.  She  did  not  bestow 
either  the  smile  or  courtesy  with  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  greet  Alleyne.  She  stood  stiff 
and  grim,  and  her  heavy  brows  met  over  her 
eyes  in  a  frown ;  but  he  had  no  time  to  notice 
her  demeanor. 


' '  Is  mademoiselle  in  her  morning-room  ?  Can 
I  go  up  ?"  he  asked. 

He  was  stepping  forward  to  pass  her  as  he 
spoke;  but  she  planted  herself  directly  in  his 
way. 

"Mademoiselle  is  not  in  her  morning- room," 
said  she. 

"Where,  then?  Please  tell  her  I  am  here. 
I  want  to  see  her  at  once." 

"Mademoiselle  is  not  in  the  house" — with  a 
defiant  sniff.  "Mademoiselle  est  partie  en  voy 
age." 

"  Good  heavens !  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried 
Alleyne,  aghast.  "Gone  —  where  —  not  with 
him  ?" 

"With  monsieur  her  uncle?  No,  indeed! 
Monsieur  was  not  likely  to  have  taken  her  with 
him." 

"Where  is  she,  then?" 

"Departed  on  a  journey."  Only  that  sullen 
repetition  of  her  words  could  he  obtain. 

"Is  Mrs.  St.  Simon  here?" 

Yes,  madame  was  there.  She  was  not  dress 
ed  yet,  though ;  nobody  could  see  her.  The 
woman's  dogged  obstinacy  and  quiet  exasperated 
Alleyne  beyond  control  in  the  agitation  which 
seized  him. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Antoinette !"  he  exclaimed, 
"tell  me  where  mademoiselle  is.  You  know  I 
have  a  right  to  ask;  you  know  we  are  to  be 
married." 

"Mais  won,"  retorted  Antoinette,  frowning 
more  darkly ;  "je  rfen  sais  rien  I  There  is  to 
be  no  wedding ;  mademoiselle  told  me." 

"  Has  she  left  no  letter  for  me — no  message  ?" 
he  asked,  not  catching  her  words.  "  There  must 
be;  go  ask  madame." 

Antoinette  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  silent 
contempt  at  the  idea  of  mademoiselle's  confiding 
either  epistle  or  message  to  that  lady. 

"There  must  be  a  letter, "repeated  Alleyne, 
imperatively.  "  Go  at  once. " 

"There  is  none!"  Antoinette  looked  fierce 
enough  now.  "  If  monsieur  had  wished  to  see 
mademoiselle,  he  should  have  come  when  sent 
for." 

"  But  I  was  in  bed,  ill.  I  did  not  know  there 
was  any  trouble." 

Another  shrug  of  Antoinette's  shoulders.  It 
was  all  one  to  her.  Mademoiselle  was  gone ; 
no,  she  did  not  know  where.  Yes,  gone  on  n 
long  journey;  had  taken  two  trunks.  No,  he 
should  not  see  madame ;  he  would  frighten  her 
to  death.  Madame  knew  little  of  what  had  hap 
pened  ;  she  was  well ;  more  dull  and  stupid  than 
usual.  Antoinette  was  to  take  her  to  Montmo- 
renci  at  once. 

All  these  brief  answers  to  Alleyne's  hurried 
questions.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  waiting.  He  turned  down  the  steps ;  An 
toinette  slammed  the  great  doors  vengefully  be 
hind  him.  Where  was  he  to  go?  what  course 


174 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


must  be  adopted  ?  He  thought  of  Miss  Dever- 
eux;  Fanny  seemed  more  intimate  with  her 
than  any  other  female  friend  ;  she  might  be  able 
to  give  him  some  information.  He  was  so  com 
pletely  in  the  dark — the  bewilderment  was  so  ex 
cessive — that  he  felt  stunned.  He  got  into  the 
cab,  and  gave  the  order  to  drive  to  Miss  Dever- 
eux's.  The  lady  was  in ;  she  would  see  him. 
In  a  few  moments  she  entered  the  room  where 
he  was  walking  up  and  down. 

' '  Do  you  know  where  Miss  St.  Simon  is  ?"  he 
asked  at  once.  Of  course  Helen  knew  nothing. 

"I  only  learned  this  morning  what  had  hap 
pened,"  he  continued;  "I  read  it  in  the  paper. 
I  was  ill  last  night.  You  were  at  the  dinner ; 
tell  me  every  thing." 

She  told  him  all  the  occurrence ;  she  told  him, 
too,  that  she  had  been  anxious  to  stay  with  Miss 
St.  Simon,  but  the  young  lady  preferred  to  be 
alone :  not  a  word  in  regard  to  the  insults  she 
had  received.  She  sympathized  deeply  with  his 
distress  and  alarm  when  he  explained  that  Fanny 
had  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace. 

"She  wrote  me  a  few  words  last  night.  I 
was  in  bed  with  sick-headache,"  he  said.  "  There 
was  nothing  in  the  lines  to  make  me  think  any 
thing  was  amiss.  Wait  —  here  it  is  in  my 
pocket." 

He  took  out  the  note,  and  gave  it  to  her.  She 
drew  it  from  the  envelope ;  read  the  hasty 
scrawl,  and  turned  toward  him  in  surprise. 

"This  is  a  note  from  you  to  Miss  St.  Simon," 
she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  incredulously.  She  put  the 
billet  back  in  his  hands.  He  glanced  at  the 
paper — saw  his  writing — recognized  the  excuse 
he  had  scribbled  on  the  previous  night  while  lit 
erally  unable  to  raise  his  head  from  the  pillow, 
and  so  racked  with  pain  that  he  did  not  even 
hear  the  waiter's  explanation  that  an  old  woman 
had  brought  the  letter,  and  desired,  if  possible,  to 
see  him. 

"Good  God!" he  exclaimed.  "What  can  it 
mean  ?  Why — " 

Miss  Devereux's  feminine  .quickness  grasped 
the  truth  at  once. 

"It  is  very  unfortunate,"  she  said,  hesitating 
ly.  "In  your  hurry  you  must  have  put  her  own 
note  in  the  envelope  you  meant  for  this." 

He  groaned  aloud. 

"She  has  gone— no  wonder — gone,  thinking 
me  the  vilest  of  men !  Don't  you  see  how  it 
was?  She  believed  I  had  heard— that  I  took 
this  cowardly  way  of— of—  Oh,  it  is  horrible !" 

Tears  of  sympathy  rose  in  Helen's  eyes;  his 
usual  fitgm  self-control  had  broken  down  utterly, 
and  his  uisfress  was  painful  to  witness. 

"D^  not  despair,  Mr.  Alleyne,"  she  said. 
"We  »hall  find  her;  I'm  sure  we  shall." 

"But  where  to  go  —  which  way  to  turn?" 
Then  he  recounted  as  clearly  as  his  agitation 
would  permit  his  unsatisfactory  interview  with 


Antoinette.  "  I  understand  now  why  the  faith 
ful  old  thing  was  so  sullen  and  obstinate. " 

"I  will  see  her  myself,"  Miss  Devereux  said. 
"Let  me  think  ;  Roland  Spencer  is  one  of  Fan 
ny's  warmest  friends — go  to  him.  Come  back 
as  soon  as  you  can  ;  I  shall  be  home  by  the  time 
you  reach  here.  One  or  the  other  must  have 
news.  I  will  explain  to  Antoinette — she  is  de 
voted  to  her  mistress ;  she  will  tell  me  what  to 
do  when  she  knows  why  you  wish  to  find  her." 

An  hour  later  they  met  again  in  that  room, 
but  neither  brought  any  tidings.  Each  had  re 
turned  hoping  the  other  might  have  been  suc 
cessful.  Spencer  could  not  be  found ;  Antoi 
nette  had  taken  her  mistress  to  Montmorenci. 

"  Then  I  must  go  there,"  Alleyne  said. 

"  You  would  not  find  Antoinette  ;  the  man  in 
charge  told  me  that  she  was  coming  back  to 
Paris :  she  had  matters  to  arrange  for  Miss  St. 
Simon." 

"But  to  sit  still  and  wait  is  so  frightful!" 

"I  know  ;  yet  there  is  nothing  else  to'do.  I 
left  a  note  for  Antoinette ;  *I  am  sure  she  will 
come  to  me  this  evening." 

Miss  Devereux  also  wrote  to  Roland  Spencer, 
asking  to  see  him  the  moment  he  received  her 
message.  So  there  was  no  more,  as  she  said, 
to  be  done  at  present.  He  must  bear  for  this 
day  at  least  that  dreariest  of  burdens — suspense. 
She  was  veiy  kind  and  sympathizing,  and  Al 
leyne  had  need  of  sympathy ;  the  catastrophe 
utterly  unnerved  him  in  spite  of  his  strength. 
It  was  horrible  to  think  of  his  apparent  treach 
ery  falling  as  an  added  blow  upon  Fanny  in  the 
agony  of  discovering  her  uncle's  crime.  Miss 
Devereux's  idea  was  that  she  had  hidden  herself 
for  a  while  to  escape  either  friendliness  or  curi 
osity  from  any  acquaintance. 

"From  what  I  know  of  Miss  St.  Simon,"  she 
said,  "I  am  sure  she  could  not  bear  either  just 
now.  I  can  quite  understand  the  feeling." 

"Poor  girl — poor  Fanny!"  he  sighed. 

"It  will  all  end  well;  don't  despond,  Mr.  Al 
leyne.  If  I  can  not  persuade  Antoinette  to  give 
me  her  address,  at  least  you  can  write  to  her  at 
Montmorenci.  She  will  probably  go  there  in  a 
few  days ;  if  not,  she  will  get  the  letters,  and 
then  every  thing  will  be  cleared  up." 

He  wrote  his  epistle  seated  at  Miss  Devereux's 
table,  Miss  Devereux  sitting  near  him.  For  a 
time  neither  was  calm  enough  to  remember  how 
strange  it  was  that  they  should  be  thrown  togeth 
er  at  such  a  crisis  in  his  life — that  fate  should 
have  forced  him  to  turn  to  her  in  this  dark  hour. 

At  last  he  recovered  his  practical  good  sense 
sufficiently  to  recollect  that  he  had  no  right  to 
intrude  upon  her.  He  felt  no  shame  in  having 
shown  her  his  trouble— her  sympathy  prevented 
this,  but  he  feared  he  had  been  selfish  in  his  ab 
sorption.  Several  visitors  called,  and  -were  de 
nied  admittance ;  he  roused  himself  at  her  last 
refusal. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


175 


"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said;  "I  must  ask 
you  to  forgive  my  detaining  you  so  long ;  your 
kindness  made  me  forget  how  selfish  it  was.  I 
thank  you,  Miss  Devereux.  I  will  go  now." 

"You  need  not  unless  you  choose,"  she  re 
plied.  "My  mother  and  Miss  Cordy  are  out 
for  the  day.  I  should  not  have  admitted  those 
people ;  I  am  too  anxious  and  troubled." 

He  had  risen,  and  was  holding  out  his  hand ; 
she  took  it ;  their  eyes  met ;  they  both  remem 
bered  how  odd  it  was  they  should  be  together  at 
this*  time,  and  she  trying  to  offer  him  aid  and 
consolation.  A  quick  flush  passed  over  Helen 
Devereux's  face,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  pallor 
and  trouble  which  she  saw  reflected  on  his. 

".I  thank  you — I  do  thank  you,"  he  said,  as 
he  let  her  hand  go. 

"  We  are  very  old  acquaintances,"  she  replied, 
steadily,  and  her  countenance  was  calm  now. 
"There  is  no  need  of  thanks.  I  am  sure  if  I 
were  in  any  distress,  you  would  be  glad  to  help 
me." 

"Yes,"  he  said;   "yes." 

How  the  memory  of  the  old  days  rushed  across 
both  their  minds  as  they  stood  there! — a  won 
der  rising,  too,  that  they  could  have  so  utterly 
forgotten  them  even  under  the  exigency  of  the 
circumstances  which  brought  him  to  her  side. 
Those  beautiful  days  before  pride,  distrust,  be 
lief  in  each  other's  changed  heart,  dug  the  gulf 
between  them  across  which  they  looked  at  each 
other  now. 

Alleyne  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  did  not  think  I  could  ever  have  sufficient 
ly  forgiven  you  to  be  willing  to  receive  a  favor  at 
your  hands,"  he  said,  just  uttering  his  thoughts 
aloud.  They  were  words  which  he  would  not 
have  spoken  at  a  calmer  moment ;  but  he  was  so 
sick  at  heart,  so  stunned  by  this  present  great 
affliction,  that  he  gladly  put  by  the  last  trace  of 
resentment — rejoiced  to  think  at  least  he  and 
this  woman  might  be  friends.  He  knew  now 
that  his  chief  feeling  in  this  crisis  was  anxiety 
for  Fanny,  and  dismay  at  finding  himself  placed 
in  a  dishonorable  light — apparently  capable  of 
drawing  back  from  his  promised  wife,  and  de 
serting  her  in  an  hour  of  bitterest  need.  These 
emotions  were  the  prominent  ones  in  his  mind ; 
not  the  awful  heart-ache,  the  dull  despair  which 
had  stricken  him  when  Helen  Devereux?8  in 
explicable  conduct  shattered  the  dream  of  his 
youth. 

He  did  feel  keenly  the  stain  which  must  cling 
to  Fanny  from  St.  Simon's  crime — to  him  also, 
through  his  connection  with  her.  It  was  hor 
rible  ;  struggle  as  he  might,  the  blot  would  re 
main  a  humiliation  while  life  endured;  but  this 
did  not  cause  him  to  falter.  Fanny's  desolation 
only  formed  a  new  claim  upon  his  regard.  At 
any  personal  cost  he  would  shelter  and  protect 
her.  If  possible,  he  would  guard  her  more  care 
fully,  be  more  patient  with  her  caprices  and 


van-ing  moods,  than  if  this  misery  had  not  over 
taken  her. 

His  softened  state  of  mind  made  him  long  to 
obliterate  the  final  tinge  of  bitterness  which  his 
heart  had  cherished  toward  Helen  Devereux. 
Hereafter  they  would  not  probably  meet  often — 
their  lives  must  lead  in  opposite  directions.  He 
should  be  glad  if  she  might  say  any  words  which 
would  enable  them  to  part  really  friends — express 
at  least  regret  for  the  harsh  manner  in  which  she 
had  brought  about  the  old  rupture.  So  thinking 
these  things,  almost  before  he  knew  it,  he  had 
uttered  that  speech.  At  another  time  his  ad 
mission  would  have  roused  Miss  Devereux's 
haughty  spirit  to  indignant  anger — his  insolence 
in  presuming  to  accuse  her;  but  she  was  too 
sorry  for  him  to  be  offended. 

"I  can  accept  the  favor  now  without  anger  or 
mortification ;  I  do  thank  you,  Miss  Devereux. 
We  part  friends." 

"At  least  there  is  no  harshness  in  my  feelings," 
she  replied ;  "I  can  safely  assert  so  much." 

"I  never  expected  in  any  way  to  revert  to  the 
past,"  he  said. 

"  Nor  did  I  ever  expect  you  to  do  so,"  she  ex 
claimed,  lifting  her  head  with  the  old  impatient 
movement  of  pride  he  knew  so  well.  She  check 
ed  herself  quickly,  and  added,  "But  since  you 
have  done  so — " 

"Yes;  it  seemed  right  after  your  great  kind 
ness  of  to-day.  I  think  scarcely  any  woman  in 
the  world  could  have  been  so  tender  and  gen 
tle."  He  stopped  for  an  instant,  then  continued, 
"You  were  very  young;  it  was  natural  enough, 
perhaps,  that  you  should  change ;  it  may  be  you 
might  have  let  me  know  in  a  gentler  way.  Still, 
that  is  all  over." 

She  had  grown  white  as  death,  but  her  eyes 
never  wavered  from  his  face  while  he  spoke. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 
"I  never  thought  to  live  long  enough  to  ask  the 
justification  of  your  conduct ;  but  now,  I  repeat, 
I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Miss  Devereux !" 

The  color  brightened  in  her  cheeks  again ;  her 
great  eyes  flashed  hotly. 

"You  sent  me  back  my  letters  without  n 
word — " 

"Except  the  last,"  he  interrupted.  "I  kept 
that !  I  thought  to  look  at  it  occasionally  would 
make  me  a  wiser  man ;  I  kept  that  letter !  It 
told  me  that  the  world  had  been  more  potent 
than  my  love !  You  wanted  your  freedom  ;  yon 
asked  me  not  to  blame  you.  Well,  at  last  I  can 
promise  to  obey  your  wish." 

Her  face  was  full  of  unutterable  am'  r»"nent ; 
there  was  an  accent  of  truth  in  her  TOICO  which 
could  not  be  doubted. 

"I  never  wrote  you  such  a  letter,"  she  said  ; 
"never!" 

"Helen !"  He  did  not  know  that  he  had  ut 
tered  the  old  familiar  name,  but  she  heard  it. 


176 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


"I  never  wrote  you  such  a  letter,"  she  re 
peated.  "You  sent  my  letters  back  without 
word  or  sign.  I  could  not  ask  your  reason  even 
when  it  mattered  to  me ;  it  does  not  matter  to 
either  of  us  now." 

Before  he  could  answer,  a  servant  entered  and 
placed  a  telegram  in  Miss  Devereux's  hands. 
She  read  the  message,  and  cried  out, 

"Tell  Marian!  How  am  I  to  tell  Marian? 
Oh,  Mr.  Alleyne,  read,  read!  Talbot  — and 
Marian  ;  how  can  I  tell  Marian!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THEIK   JOURNEY. 

ROLAND  SPENCER  had  been  a  much  earlier 
visitor  than  Mr.  Alleyne  at  St.  Simon's  hotel  that 
morning,  though  his  inquiries  met  with  as  little 
success.  But  at  least  Antoinette  was  civil  to 
him.  Indeed,  under  the  potency  of  his  persua 
sions — especially  certain  golden  ones — she  might 
have  given  him  some  clue  to  Fanny's  whereabouts, 
only  she  had  none  to  offer.  Fanny  knew  that 
when  it  came  to  a  struggle  between  the  old  wom 
an's  reticence  and  stupidity  the  latter  would  un 
doubtedly  conquer,  so  she  kept  her  own  counsel. 
She  had  presaged  this  visit  from  Spencer.  There 
was  no  one  else  who  would  take  the  trouble  to 
ask  what  had  become  of  her ;  but  he  would  not 
only  do  his  best  to  find  out,  he  would  follow  if 
he  could  discover  her  route. 

There  was  one  person  who  might  have  told 
him — a  mild,  deprecating-looking  little  man  who 
haunted  the  darkened  rooms.  Talbot  Castle- 
maine  had  not  'forgotten  on  the  previous  night 
to  make  arrangements  so  that  Fanny  should  suf 
fer  no  annoyance  in  leaving  the  house.  He  had 
held  an  interview  with  the  little  man,  whose  ev 
ery  look  seemed  an  humble  apology  for  being 
alive.  This  mock  individual  was  a  very  impor 
tant  personage  among  the  higher  rank  of  Parisian 
detectives.  He  had  no  objection  to  Miss  St.  Si 
mon's  going  down  to  Fontainebleau  to  escape 
curious  acquaintances ;  no  objection  to  her  going 
on  to  Marseilles  if  she  chose.  There  would  be 
some  one  to  overlook  her  every  proceeding  un 
noticed,  though  the  little  man  scarcely  hoped  any 
good  would  come  of  it.  The  police  had  reason 
to  suppose  that  the  fugitive  they  wanted  was  hid 
den  in  Paris  itself. 

Roland  wasted  valuable  time  trying  to  do  a  bit 
out  of  a  modem  novel ;  that  is,  he  hunted  up  hack- 
drivers,  he  talked  to  the  policemen ;  he  gained 
just  no  information  whatever.  There  was  no 
miracle  of  ugliness  and  acuteness  in  the  shape  of 
a  gamin  to  beckon  him  with  dirty  finger  into  a 
corner,  and  give  the  clue  he  desired  in  a  wheezy 
whisper,  with  much  eye-rolling  and  many  remark 
able  specimens  of  argot.  There  ought  to  have 
been  such  a  boy — attached  to  Spencer  by  kind 


ness  shown  him — a  boy  fiendish  where  other  hu 
man  beings  were  concerned ;  a  very  lamb  of  the 
millennium  to  his  benefactor  —  but  there  was 
none. 

There  was  neither  a  crowd  nor  confusion  about 
the  house.  As  the  morning  went  on  there  were 
trades-people  enough  to  present  themselves  with 
bills,  clamorous  for  payment ;  but  the  money 
which  Fanny  had  given  old  Antoinette  enabled 
her  to  settle  these.  The  proprietor  of  the  hotel 
did  not  reside  in  Paris,  and  had  not  yet  heard  of 
the  explosion  ;  Fanny  knew  what  was  due  to 
him,  and  had  arranged  with  Antoinette  in  regard 
to  this  matter  also. 

The  second  visit  Roland  made  (he  had  been 
half  over  Paris  in  the  mean  time,  trying  every 
possible  and  impossible  means  to  gain  any  in 
formation  which  might  guide  him,  and  return 
ing  as  ignorant  as  ever),  the  Tortoise,  seated  in 
one  of  the  rez-de-chaussee  rooms,  arrayed  for  her 
journey,  heard  his  voice,  and  told  Antoinette  that 
she  wished  to  see  him. 

She  looked  more  dazed  than  usual,  but  not 
frightened.  She  indulged  in  many  pinches  of 
snuff,  and  was  rather  less  coherent  than  ordinary 
in  her  talk.  She  understood  very  little  of  what 
had  happened.  Fanny  had  come  to  her  early  in 
the  morning,  assured  her  there  was  no  trouble, 
but  that  St.  Simon  had  been  obliged  to  leave 
home  on  important  business.  She  was  to  keep 
calm  and  passive,  and  go  with  Antoinette  to  Mont- 
morenci ;  not  to  ask  any  questions  or  be  alarmed. 
When  the  Tortoise  found  that  she  was  to  lose  no 
portion  of  her  wardrobe  or  jewels,  she  was  com 
fortable  enough,  and  Fanny  easily  invented  a 
story  which  accounted  for  her  own  departure. 

"  How  do  you  do?"  said  the  Tortoise,  as  Ro 
land  entered.  "  I  suppose  Fanny  told  you  ;  I 
don't  much  want  to  go  to  Montmorenci,  but  she 
says  I  must.  Are  you  going  too  ?  There  isn't 
any  thing  the  matter,  is  there  ?" 

"Oh  no,  of  course  not,"  he  answered,  cheer 
fully,  for  Antoinette  had  warned  him  to  say 
nothing  that  would  terrify  her.  "You  will  find 
Montmorenci  very  pleasant  these  bright  autumn 
days." 

"I  was  so  comfortable  here,  "droned  the  Tor 
toise  ;  "and  the  dinners  were  so  good.  I'm  sure 
there's  a  secret,  but  she  wouldn't  tell  me,  and 
Antoinette  won't  either.  I  shouldn't  wonder  " — 
here  the  Tortoise  looked  very  wise — "  if  there 
was  to  be  no  wedding ;  Fanny's  so  queer !  I 
asked  her  if  Mr.  Alleyne  was  going,  and  she  said 
no ;  she  knew  nothing  about  him,  and  didn't 
want  to." 

"She  will  probably  join  you  in  a  few  days," 
Roland  said,  speaking  in  accordance  with  An 
toinette's  advice. 

The  Tortoise  found  she  had  left  her  handker 
chief  in  her  chamber,  and  was  so  very  miserable 
that  Roland  departed  in  search  of  it.  He  went 
upstairs,  through  the  salons,  which  looked  deso- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


177 


late  indeed  in  their  present  confusion,  and  passed 
on  to  the  Tortoise's  dressing-room.  As  he  came 
back  into  the  boudoir  where  he  had  last  seen 
Fanny,  he  stopped  and  gazed  mournfully  about. 
He  remembered  more  distinctly  than  ever  how 
strangely  she  had  looked  and  talked,  and  his 
fears  rose  to  a  more  agonizing  height  than  ever. 

There  was  the  chair  where  she  sat ;  there  he 
stood  when  pleading  with  her  at  least  to  trust 
and  confide  in  him.  He  saw  a  flower  lying  on 
the  carpet ;  it  was  one  which  had  fallen  from 
her  hair.  He  stooped  to  pick  up  the  withered, 
discolored  thing ;  she  had  worn  it ;  he  could 
not  bear  to  leave  it  to  be  trampled  and  swept 
carelessly  out.  As  he  bent  to  take  it  he  saw  a 
letter  envelope  lying  near.  He  seized  the  pa 
per  ;  it  had  the  address  of  an  hotel  written  on 
it. 

He  knew  the  hotel  and  the  street ;  they  were 
in  Fontainebleau ;  he  had  found  the  clue  he 
wanted.  But  there  was  no  joy  in  his  face ;  he 
turned  very  pale,  and  fairly  groaned  aloud.  He 
recognized  the  writing  ;  if  he  had  not,  the  crest 
and  monogram  would  have  told  him  every  thing. 
The  fears  which  he  tried  during  the  sleepless 
night  to  thrust  aside  as  an  insult  to  Fanny  re 
turned  with  added  force.  She  had  gone  to  Fon 
tainebleau  ;  that  was  not  all ;  she  had  gone  to 
meet  Talbot  Castlemaine  there. 

He  put  the  paper  in  his  pocket  and  hurried 
down  -  stairs,  bade  the  Tortoise  farewell,  and 
drove  rapidly  away  to  the  gare  de  Lyon.  He 
was  in  time  for  a  noon  train ;  a  slow  train,  that 
would  consume  two  hours  in  reaching  Fontaine- 
bleau.  How  long  the  journey  seemed !  how  the 
train  crept  and  halted,  and  the  engine  moaned 
and  panted,  as  if  conscious  of  the  maddening 
haste  which  beset  him,  and  enjoying  a  fiendish 
pleasure  in  his  torture  at  the  delay.  What  a 
journey !  If  Roland  Spencer  lives  to  be  an  old 
man  he  will  never  forget  those  two  horrible 
hours.  He  might  not  find  her;  she  might  be 
already  gone.  No ;  the  address  meant  that  she 
was  to  stop  there.  Oh,  perhaps  it  was  only  that 
Castlemaine  knew  St.  Simon's  hiding-place,  and 
had  helped  Fanny  to  go  to  him !  Useless  to  fix 
on  that  thought ;  he  recalled  the  past  weeks ;  he 
knew  this  man  loved  her ;  that  he  was  utterly 
reckless ;  would  stop  at  nothing.  And  Fanny ; 
no,  no — it  could  not  be!  He  would  not  admit 
the  idea  that  she  could,  even  in  her  present  des 
peration.  Oh,  he  must  think  of  something  else! 
He  did ;  of  an  excursion  he  had  made  a  short 
time  before  to  Fontainebleau ;  of  a  day  spent  in 
the  forest  with  pleasant  companions.  The  rec 
ollection  only  rendered  his  present  suspense  and 
feverish  sensation  of  hurry  more  unendurable. 
All  the  while  that  black  fear  smote  his  soul  and 
half  maddened  him. 

It  was  not  love  or  jealousy  he  felt ;  his  heart 
was  full  of  tenderness  and  pity.     He  would  save 
her ;  in  spite  of  herself  he  would  save  her  !     But 
12 


it  could  not  be ;  he  belied  her  in  his  thoughts ; 
it  was  base  and  mean  ;  it  could  not  be. 

Fontainebleau !  At  last !  He  was  out  of  the 
station;  driving  through  the  quaint,  ill -paved 
streets ;  he  was  at  the  Lion  D'Or.  He  had  no 
need  to  ask  a  question  ;  the  sole  name  this  morn 
ing  written  in  the  visitor's  book  was  in  Fanny's 
hand ;  not  her  name,  though. 

Koland  asked  if  the  lady  was  in  the  house. 
No,  she  had  gone  out ;  gone  toward  the  forest. 
There  was  a  smile  on  the  face  of  the  bland  clerk 
which  inspired  Koland  with  a  longing  to  knock 
him  down.  The  bland  functionary  was  accus 
tomed  to  see  ladies  come  from  Paris  alone,  and 
be  followed  by  handsome  young  men.  But  it 
was  not  the  bland  man's  business ;  only  Koland 
hurried  off  without  a  word  about  breakfast,  and 
the  bland  man  did  not  like  that ;  he  thought  it 
would  be  very  contemptible  if  they  went  to  a 
restaurant. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  Roland  entered  the 
great  gates,  and  saw  the  gray  front  of  the  old 
palace  rising  in  the  distance.  It  was  not  a  day 
on  which  strangers  were  admitted  to  the  interior 
of  the  chateau,  so  there  were  no  waifs  from  tho 
troops  of  English  and  American  tourists  to  ren 
der  identification  of  Fanny  out  of  the  question. 
The  lodge-keeper  had  seen  a  lady ;  she  had  gone 
straight  along  the  avenue ;  she  was  going  up  tho 
hill  called  the  hill  of  Henri  Quatre.  The  lodge- 
keeper  had  often  seen  her.  Once  she  had  spent 
a  whole  summer  at  Fontainebleau — a  very 
gracious  lady !  She  had  stopped  this  morning 
and  asked  after  the  children.  She  used  to  give 
the  children  many  presents:  they  were  at  the 
(cole  now,  but  madame  had  not  forgotten  to 
leave  a  remembrance  for  them.  All  this  the 
woman  poured  out  rapidly,  leaving  Koland  still 
more  certain  that  he  was  on  the  right  track. 
Madame  had  dropped  her  handkerchief;  it' 
monsieur  was  going  to  join  her,  perhaps  he 
would  take  it.  At  this  season  of  the  year  a 
handkerchief  was  a  good  friend ;  one  was  al 
ways  un  peu  enrhumt ;  and  the  fat,  jolly  woman 
laughed  at  her  own  wit.  There  was  F.  St.  S. 
on  the  filmy  web,  and  the  delicate  violet  odor 
Roland  knew  so  well. 

When  Fanny  St.  Simon  passed  the  park  gates 
and  stopped  to  speak  pleasantly  with  the  wom 
an,  there  was  scarcely  more  confusion  or  grave 
thought  in  her  mind  than  if  she  had  come,  as 
she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  the  summer 
she  and  the  Tortoise  spent  at  Fontainebleau,  to 
while  away  an  afternoon  in  tho  forest.  She 
drank  some  milk  in  the  lodge,  ate  a  bit  of  black 
bread  and  a  bunch  of  grapes,  and  went  on. 

She  had  a  new  novel  in  the  little  sachel  on  her 
arm  :  she  had  begun  reading  it  in  the  train ;  she 
meant  to  finish  it  in  a  secluded  nook  on  the  hill, 
which  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  hers. 

She  paused  near  the  chateau  ;  fed  the  ancient 
carp  in  the  fish-pond ;  walked  round  to  the  ter- 


178 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


race  at  the  right,  and  finally  set  off  to  climb  the 
hill.  She  reached  the  spot  she  was  searching, 
among  the  trees,  where  a  rustic  bench  offered  a 
convenient  resting-place.  She  might  have  been 
leagues  away  from  the  town,  so  still  was  it.  She 
could  see  from  her  eminence  the  palace  towers 
rising  among  the  green  foliage ;  could  look  far 
through  stately  avenues  and  leafy  glades.  The 
sunlight  played  about  her,  and  turned  the  leaves 
to  gold.  The  low  breeze  sighed  musically  past. 
The  birds  congregated  in  flocks  among  the 
branches  of  the  oaks,  and  discussed  their  south 
ward  flight  with  as  much  difference  of  opinion 
as  a  human  family  could  have  shown  in  a  pro 
posed  journey.  The  rabbits  stared  at  her  with 
their  bright  eyes,  or  scuttled  off  in  sudden  terror 
when  she  threw  them  some  crumbs  left  from  the 
provision  she  had  brought  for  the  carp. 

A  glorious  autumn  day :  Fanny  enjoyed  the 
rest  and  quiet — read  her  novel — enjoyed  that 
too.  She  had  been  determined  to  keep  serious 
thoughts  aloof,  and  she  succeeded.  She  did  not 
even  think  much  about  Talbot — nothing  of  the 
awful  crisis  which  had  shattered  her  life,  and 
the  first  step  she  had  taken  along  the  precipice 
which  must  fling  her  forever  out  of  the  pale  of 
honor  and  right. 

The  bell  of  t  chateau  tolled  the  hour ;  she 
had  been  a  long  while  in  the  wood.  Castle- 
maine  might  come  soon  now ;  he  had  promised 
to  start  as  early  as  possible.  They  would  watt 
together  for  the  night  express,  which  reached 
Fontainebleau  at  nine  o'clock.  Then  —  always 
together — they  would  hurry  on ;  away  from  ev 
ery  association  with  the  past ;  away  toward  the 
sea,  where  the  white-sailed  yacht  was  in  readi 
ness  to  bear  them  off  to  Grecian  skies  and  East 
ern  climes. 

Together !  As  she  repeated  this  word,  that 
expressed  all  the  bliss  she  was  to  purchase  at 
the  cost  of  every  thing  which  human  or  divine 
creeds  teach  tis  to  prize,  while  her  heart  throbbed 
.in  a  quick  tumult  of  joy,  a  great  black  cloud 
seemed  to  settle  between  Fanny  St.  Simon  and 
the  sudden  vision  of  beauty  and  delight  which 
had  risen  before  her. 

Try  to  fix  her  mind  as  she  would  upon  that 
vision,  there  showed  between  her  and  it,  painted 
on  this  black  cloud,  the  first  real  perception  of 
what  she  was  in  truth  going  forth  to  meet.  A 
brief  season  of  mad  delight— misery  and  retribu 
tion  beyond !  She  did  not  shrink ;  at  least  she 
should  have  her  happiness.  But  it  would  not 
come  —  not  even  a  brief  space.  From  the  in 
stant  they  met — that  his  eyes  sought  hers — that 
he  held  her  in  his  arms— the  punishment  would 
begin.  Degraded  in  his  sight  — fondly  as  he 
might  love  her — faithful  as  he  might  prove — 
degraded !  She  cared  nothing  for  the  world — 
little  for  what  was  essentially  right  or  wrong; 
but  to  live  degraded  in  his  eyes ! 

Why  ha.d  she  not  thought   of  this   before? 


Why  did  the  idea  haunt  her  now?  It  was  too 
late ;  she  had  taken  the  irrevocable  step  —  she 
could  not  go  back.  He  loved  her ;  only  a  mis 
erable  phantom  of  duty  had  kept  them  apart. 
They  were  brave  enough  to  claim  their  happi 
ness  ;  what  were  men's  cruel  laws  to  them  ? 
She  went  over  all  the  old  sophistries  ;  she  called 
up  the  might  of  her  love  ;  she  fought  against  the 
new  light  in  which  the  future  presented  itself, 
but  in  vain. 

She  was  a  coward — a  fool!  She  would  not 
think !  Oh,  if  he  were  only  come  !  She  did 
not  want  time  ;  she  wanted  to  be  hurried  away 
beyond  redemption,  beyond  fears  or  remorse. 
If  a  spirit  from  heaven  had  told  her  that  once 
so  far  decided  in  any  purpose  she  could  hesitate, 
she  would  not  have  believed  it — but  now !  The 
glow  of  romance — the  poetry — the  false  heroism 
— the  rebellion  against  human  dogmas — all  which 
hid  the  loathsomeness  of  the  sin  disappeared,  and 
she  had  to  stare  at  the  naked  truth  in  its  coarse 
details.  Sophistical  arguments  were  useless,  fine 
names  availed  nothing ;  the  bald,  bare,  disgust 
ing  fact  confronted  her.  Say  that  men's  laws 
had  no  right  to  break  two  hearts — what  then  ? 
The  horror  and  the  loathsomeness  remained. 
Say  that  love  in  its  strength  purified  all  things 
and  actions?  Still  she  saw  the  horrid  reality 
under  the  pretty  phrases  and  the  bright  hues. 
Lost  —  lost!  Not  others'  good  opinions— those 
were  gone  already ;  not  heaven — there  could  be 
no  heaven  for  her  if  she  gave  up  Taibot ;  but 
the  last  gleam  of  purity,  the  one  thing  which 
rendered  her  desirable  in  his  eyes  gone  forever 
— lost,  lost ! 

She  was  out  of  her  seat ;  she  was  rushing  up 
and  down,  fighting  against  the  angel  sent  to 
warn  her  as  fiercely  as  ever  saint  of  old  fought 
against  the  devils  striving  to  allure  him. 

Her  love — her  love — she  would  not  give  it  up ! 
That  full  period  of  promised  bliss  should  be  hers, 
let  what  might  come  after.  But  as  she  uttered, 
half  aloud,  the  fierce  resolve,  the  answer  came  as 
audibly  as  if  some  tangible  shape  had  spoken  it. 
She  would  find  no  such  bliss — not  the  briefest ! 
If  she  would  save  even  the  ghost  of  her  murder 
ed  love,  she  must  fly  now.  If  she  tarried,  if  Tal 
bot  found  her,  it  would  be  no  more  herself;  the 
woman  she  was  would  have  perished ;  the  lost 
creature  striving  to  forget  her  agony  on  his 
breast  and  drown  memory  in  his  kisses  would 
not  be  she,  but  another. 

Of  what  was  she  thinking  ?  Did  she  mean  to 
go  away  now — now,  with  bliss  ineffable  in  her 
reach  ?  She  could  not  mean  it — she  did  not ! 
Like  Talbot,  she  had  said  that  for  one  brief  stay- 
in  Paradise  she  could  accept  hell  through  all 
eternity  without  a  murmur ;  and  she  would,  she 
would  !  Wiry,  who  was  she  to  hesitate  ?  She 
was  not  a  good  woman — she  was  a  liar ;  she  had 
unscrupulously  done  wrong  to  her  neighbors,  had 
deliberately  wrecked  two  lives — what  had  she  to 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


170 


do  with  scruples  ?  Could  she  be  worse  than  at 
present?  In  the  world's  sight  only  one  sin  that 
i\  woman  might  commit  was  counted  as  irre 
deemable.  Women  might  deceive  —  torture 
hearts ;  these  were  venial  faults :  in  God's  eyes 
she  knew  they  might  show  worse  than  the  sin 
which  men  did  not  pardon  ;  and  all  these  lay  at 
her  door. 

She  would  not  give  up ;  she  would  have  her 
love,  her  elysian  dream !  She  dfd  not  want  to 
be  saved ;  she  refused  redemption,  if  that  was 
what  these  torturing  spirits  offered  at  such'  a 
price.  Yet  saying  this  she  fell  on  her  knees — she 
who  had  scarcely  prayed  since  childhood — she 
who  had  recognized  God  only  as  some  grand  prin 
ciple,  some  far-off  abstraction.  She  was  on  her 
knees,  and  prayers  broke  from  her  lips,  try  as  she 
might  to  choke  them  back.  She  beat  her  own 
face — she  tugged  at  her  hair — she  w'ould  have 
uttered  curses  if  she  could,  and  yet  she  prayed — 
prayed  to  be  taken  away — to  be  helped  out  of 
the  possibility  of  her  sin.  She  did  not  mean  the 
words — she  tried  to  say  this ;  still  she  had  to 
pray.  Struggle  as  she  might,  the  resolution  to 
flee  became  each  instant  stronger. 

She  was  weak  and  torn ;  she  had  striven  and 
fought  until  she  could  only  lie  upon  the  ground 
and  moan — moan  for  her  happiness,  her  love ! 
The  fulfillment  of  both  within  her  grasp,  yet 
turned  to  such  horrible  shapes  of  shame  and  mis 
ery  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  snatch 
them. 

Suddenly  she  heard  her  name  called.  She 
forced  herself  up  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  stared 
blankly  at  Roland  Spencer.  He  started  back  as 
she  raised  her  voice ;  she  looked  like  the  ghost 
of  the  woman  he  had  known. 

"So  you  have  come,  too,"  she  moaned,  sitting 
on  the  ground  and  frowning  at  him,  while  she 
clenched  her  hands  among  the  fallen  leaves,  and 
felt  a  fierce  hatred  Tor  him  rise  in  her  soul,  be 
cause  he  had  been  sent  to  aid  in  the  battle  against 
herself.  lie  had  been  sent — she  recognized  this 
— by  that  occult  power  which  had  beaten  down 
her  mad  resolve ;  sent  to  finish  the  work ;  and 
she  hated  him,  therefore.  "You  have  come, 
too !  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"In  God's  name,  what  is  the  matter  V"  he 
cried.  "  Fanny — Fanny !" 

" Hush !"  she  said,  in  a  softer  tone  :  "I  think 
Fanny  is  dead.  Roland  Spencer,  yon  came  to 
take  me  away,  I  know.  I  don't  want  to  go — I 
don't  want  to  go!" 

Her  voice  rose  now  to  a  smothered  shriek  ;  she 
wrung  her  hands  in  an  impotent  wrath  and  an 
guish,  which  so  shook  his  very  soul  that  he  could 
not  find  a  word.  Still  she  had  to  speak;  she 
could  not  keep  her  confession  back. 
{  "I  must  go! "she  groaned;  "I  must — it  is 
stronger  than  I !  Oh,  my  love — oh,  my  one  hope 
— to  leave  it — oh,  fool,  fool ! '' 

"Fanny!"  he  cried  again. 


"Don't  speak— don't  look  at  me! "she  ex- 
claimed,  fiercely.  "  Help  me  away  ! — get  a  car 
riage — take  me  on  to  Melun ;  I  can't  wait  here 
— I  can't !  I  hate  you ;  I  shall  hate  you  forever 
for  doing  it ;  but  I  must  go — I  must !  Take  me 
away,  Roland — take  me  away!" 

He  lifted  her  from  the  ground  in  silence ;  he 
half  carried  her  down  the  hill  and  out  toward  the 
gates ;  a  wild  thanksgiving  in  his  heart.  What 
ever  mad  project  had  been  in  her  mind,  she  had 
renounced  it — not  at  his  instance ;  her  better  self 
had  conquered,  unassisted  by  human  strength. 

He  found  an  open  carnage  near  the  lodge; 
Fanny  drew  her  veil  over  her  face,  and  sunk  sul 
lenly  into  the  seat. 

They  reached  the  inn.  While  Spencer  was 
watching  the  trunks  fastened  upon,  the  vehicle, 
the  clerk  came  out  with  a  telegram,  which  he  put 
in  Fanny's  hands.  She  opened  the  envelope — 
read  the  brief  message.  Castlemaine  had  tele 
graphed  the  hour  at  which  he  would  arrive :  al 
most  time  to  expect  him — almost  time. 

She  attempted  to  rise — to  cry  out  that  she 
would  remain  ;  to  order  Roland  to  leave  her ;  it 
was  beyond  her  power.  Her  love,  her  prize,  her 
one  heaven,  had  turned  into  something  so  loath 
some  and  black  that  she  could  not  stay  to  face  it. 

Spencer  approached ;  she  thrust  the  paper  into 
her  bosom. 

"  If  you  speak  to  me,  I'll  throw  myself  out 
head  foremost  on  the  stones,"  she  said,  in  an  aw 
ful  whisper.  "  Get  up  by  the  man  ;  I  don't  want 
to  see  your  face." 

He  obeyed  in  silence,  and  off  they  dashed.  On 
through  the  ill-paved  streets  they  sped  ;  out  into 
the  shadow  of  the  great  forest  again — past  a  tiny 
hamlet  nestled  among  the  giant  oaks.  Then 
came  the  broad  white  road,  bordered  by  poplar- 
trees  ;  here  and  there  a  peasant's  cot  close  to 
the  highway — happy  children  shouting  at  their 
sports ;  beyond,  wide  stretches  of  woodland ; 
towers  and  roofs  of  ancient  chateaux  in  the  dis 
tance,  green  fields  about,  the  late  birds  singing, 
the  blue  sky  overhead,  the  gorgeous  afternoon 
sunshine  brightening  the  whole ;  every  sight  and 
sound  beautiful  and  full  of  peace. 

Occasionally  Spencer  glanced  at  the  figure  ly 
ing  huddled  on  the  back  sent.  She  never  stir 
red,  never  looked  up.  A  great  joy  and  thankful 
ness  filled  Roland's  soul.  She  was  saved— from 
what,  he  refused  to  think.  She  was  saved : 
and,  sweetest  thought  of  all,  saved  by  her  own 
innate  purity  and  nobleness — saved ! 

On  down  the  straight  white  road,  up  the  steep 
hill  upon  whose  summit  stood  busy  Melim.  Then 
Roland  heard  Fanny's  voice ;  he  looked  back — 
she  was  waving  her  hands  :  he  understood  that 
the  inarticulate  murmur  had  been  an  order  to  go 
on.  He  whispered  to  the  coachman  :  there  was 
plenty  of  time ;  on  to  Cesson ;  the  movement 
might  be  a  sort  of  relief  to  her. 

So  on  they  went— on,  on ;  each  instant  tak- 


ISO 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


ing  her  further  from  danger,  Roland  remember 
ed  with  a  mental  thanksgiving.  On — on  ;  past 
the  brook,  the  sudden  curve,  the  long  sweep  of 
sunny  highway  —  up  another  hill ;  on  into  the 
little  wretched  village,  with  its  narrow  streets, 
its  gloomy  houses,  its  discomfort  and  filth,  while 
the  bell  in  the  old  gray  church  tower  rang  out 
five  sharp  strokes  through  the  still  air. 

The  carnage  stopped  at  the  railway  station. 
Spencer  sprung  from  his  seat,  and  motioned  Fan 
ny  to  descend.  She  did  not  move.  He  leaned 
forward,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  She 
started  up  then,  and  flung  back  her  veil :  he  saw 
her  face  again  set  in  the  rigidity  of  awful  despair. 

"Ask  when  that  train  from  Paris  will  pass 
here,"  was  all  she  said,  as  she  pushed  his  hand 
aside,  and  stepped  out  on  the  ground. 

"We  have  still  nearly  an  hour  to  wait,"  he 
answered,  thinking  he  had  misunderstood  her 
words. 

"I  tell  you  I  want  to  know  about  a  train  to 
Fontainebleau!"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  hoarse, 
altered  voice.  Then  she  turned  angrily  from 
him,  and  addressed  the  station-master,  who  had 
come  out  of  his  retreat.  "A  train  has  left  Paris 
for  Fontainebleau ;  is  it  telegraphed  yet  ?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"  How  long  before  it  will  pass  here  ?" 

"Ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  madame." 

"  Oh,  my  God !"  Spencer  heard  her  mutter. 
"  I  might  have  been  with  him  so  soon — so  soon  !" 

She  walked  rapidly  away.  Roland  remained 
to  procure  tickets  and  attend  to  the  luggage. 
The  chef  explained  to  him  that  the  train  ap 
proaching  toward  Fontainebleau  was  not  for 
passengers — a  special  train  carrying  a  quantity 
of  arms  and  munitions  out  of  Paris. 

As  Roland  left  the  station,  a  boy  lounging  near 
told  him  the  lady  had  gone  up  the  road.  He 
followed ;  a  sharp  turn  shut  the  village  from 
view.  The  road  ran  beside  the  railway  for  some 
distance.  He  saw  Fanny  walking  swiftly  for 
ward.  He  had  no  intention  of  intruding  upon 
her ;  he  only  wanted  to  keep  her  in  sight. 

She  crossed  the  track,  mounted  a  steep  ascent 
overhanging  the  rail,  which  here  was  carried 
along  a  high  embankment.  She  sat  down  on 
the  grass— her  head  bowed,  her  hands  folded  in 
her  lap.  Spencer  comprehended  that  Talbot 
Castlemaine  had  secured  a  passage  in  this  ex 
pected  train  ;  Fanny  had  come  thither  to  see  it 
pass ;  from  her  position  she  would  look  directly 
down  upon  it. 

Five  minutes  perhaps  elapsed.  There  came  a 
rush,  a  whiz,  the  shriek  of  an  engine ;  on  rushed 
the  train  toward  the  curve.  Roland,  watching 
Fanny  always,  saw  her  start  up  as  if  to  throw 
herself  headlong  upon  the  rails. 

At  the  same  instant  there  sounded  an  awful 
rumbling — a  smashing  of  iron.  The  engine  and 
two  loaded  wagons  rounded  the  curve,  a  passen 
ger  carriage  and  two  more  laden  trucks  behind 


lurched,  swung  to  and  fro ;  the  couplings  parted ; 
then  carriage  and  wagons  rolled  over  and  over 
down  the  hill,  and  lay  a  mass  of  ruins  among  the 
rocks  below. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

IN     THE    DARK. 

IT  is  evening ;  a  calm,  beautiful  evening,  with 
a  full  moon  up  in  the  sky,  where  a  few  white 
fleecy  clouds  float  slowly  about,  as  if  watching 
and  waiting  for  something  on  the  earth  below. 
Now  and  then  a  low  wind  sighs  past,  and  dies 
away  in  the  distance,  like  the  murmur  of  spirit- 
voices;  as  it  surges  up  toward  the  zenith  the 
clouds  waver  more  quickly  to  and  fro,  as  though 
believing  that  what  they  wait  for  has  arrived ; 
then  the  breeze  is  silent,  and  they  seem  to  re 
sume  their  watch. 

There  is  an  unusual  stir  and  commotion  visi 
ble  in  the  little  village  of  Cesson,  and  the  one 
cafe  it  possesses  has  more  than  its  ordinary  com 
plement  of  absinthe  drinkers  to-night.  Not  a 
man  among  the  groups  gathered  about  the  tables 
has  neglected  to  visit  the  spot  where  the  accident 
occurred,  and  to  make  as  close  an  examination 
of  every  thing  as  if  expecting  to  be  called  on  to 
give  his  opinion  in  a  court  of  justice.  The  long 
bare  room  where  they  are  now  collected  is  a  per 
fect  Pandemonium,  for  they  all  talk  and  shout 
at  once,  and  gesticulate  so  fiercely  that  a  person 
not  understanding  their  language  might  easily 
suppose  each  excited  speaker  was  accusing  his 
neighbor  of  being  accessory  to  the  dreadful  mis 
hap. 

The  functionary  at  the  gare  has  related  over 
and  over  every  thing  he  knows  or  imagines  in 
regard  to  the  disaster  to  each  set  of  visitors  in 
turn.  At  present  he  is  alone  in  his  narrow  den 
close  to  the  railway,  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  in 
jury,  because  he  must  remain  there,  and  attend 
to  his  duties,  instead  of  joining  the  rest  of  the 
male  population  of  the  place  at  the  cafe,  where 
by  right  he  would  become  a  kind  of  hero  from 
having  witnessed  the  catastrophe,  and  might  rea 
sonably  expect  to  drink  numerous  glasses  of  ab 
sinthe  free  of  expense.  Then,  too,  though  he 
has  so  often  repeated  the  story — his  personal 
share  therein  growing  more  important  with  each 
repetition — it  has  by  no  means  lost  its  interest 
for  him,  and  he  feels  an  additional  sense  of  injury 
because  no  fresh  comers  appear  for  whose  benefit 
he  could  recommence  his  narrative. 

It  is  not  much  of  a  story,  even  after  all  the 
practice  he  has  had  in  elaborating  its  slightest 
detail.  The  engineers  said  the  Englishman 
must  have  been  a,  person  of  importance,  for  he 
had  brought  the  chef  at  the  Paris  station  a  writ 
ten  command  from  some  grand  official  ordering 
a  carnage  to  be  attached  to  the  train  for  his  con- 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


181 


venience.  As  for  the  accident,  that  arose  from 
the  breaking  of  a  wheel.  Neither  the  chef  de 
gare  nor  the  absinthe  drinkers  are  decided  upon 
whose  head  the  blame  will  fall ;  but  they  are 
agreed  that  somebody  is  certain  to  suffer  severely, 
and  that  fact  adds  a  deeper  interest  to  the  tragedy. 

About  the  inn  of  Cesson  are  gathered  groups 
of  women  and  children.  Waifs  from  the  crowd 
in  the  cafe  drift  up  occasionally  to  ask  questions, 
but  there  is  no  loud  talking  here,  and  old  Ma 
dame  Moineau,  the  keeper  of  the  auberge,  is 
rather  a  dragon,  in  short  blue  petticoat  and  a 
marvelously  ruffled  cap,  and  will  not  allow  loun 
gers  in  the  court-yard ;  so  the  crowd  gains  little 
information,  as  madame  keeps  a  keen  watch  over 
her  servants,  lest  they  should  rush  out  to  gossip, 
instead  of  attending  to  their  duties. 

It  is  only  known  that  the  English  gentleman 
is  still  alive.  The  surgeon  from  Fontainebleau 
has  arrived.  There  is  another  gentleman  in  the 
house ;  a  lady,  too.  Whether  these  latter  were 
in  the  train,  Cesson,  in  general,  is  not  sure ;  but 
at  least  they  are  friends  of  the  dying  man,  and 
are  with  him  now. 

Yes,  a  dying  man !  It  is  eight  o'clock,  and 
all  Cesson  knows  that  before  morning,  perhaps 
before  another  hour  goes  by,  there  will  be  only  a 
dead  body  laid  out  in  that  upper  room  of  the  inn, 
whose  window,  from  whence  streams  a  faint  light, 
is  so  eagerly  watched  by  the  groups  in  the  street. 

On  a  bed  in  that  dark,  cheerless  chamber  lies  a 
mangled,  mutilated  shape.  The  sheet  is  drawn 
over  the  ghastly  sight ;  the  hands  are  spread 
above  the  counterpane ;  they  are  not  injured. 
There  is  no  cut  about  the  face ;  but  on  the  pil 
low,  renew  the  napkins  as  often  as  they  may,  a 
little  stream  of  blood  oozes  slowly  from  some 
wound  at  the  back  of  the  head — that  glorious 
head  crowned  with  golden  hair. 

How  Roland  Spencer  has  managed  to  do 
every  thing  needful  he  does  not  know,  but  has. 
By  his  orders  the  injured  man  was  brought 
thither,  and  the  doctor  sent  for.  He  has  tele 
graphed  to  Helen  Devereux,  because  he  remem 
bers  that  a  summons  must  be  instantly  dispatch 
ed  to  Lady  Castlemaine.  He  has  forgotten  noth 
ing,  but  he  has  done  the  whole  as  one  toils  in 
a  dreadful  nightmare,  only  all  the  while  he  has 
felt  a  sense  of  unreality  which  the  nightmare 
would  not  have  possessed. 

Utterly  unreal,  indeed!  From  the  moment 
he  reaches  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  joins  the  men, 
helps  to  open  the  carriage,  to  lift  out  the  man 
gled  shape,  every  thing  up  to  the  present  moment 
is  utterly  unreal,  though  more  painful  than  the 
most  hideous  dream.  He  can  keep  no  count  of 
time ;  what  happened  hours  before,  and  what  is 
happening  now,  are  incidents  mixed  in  hopeless 
confusion. 

He  sees  Fanny  by  the  bed,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  sees  her  as  he  saw  her  in  the  gathering 
twilight.  They  put  the  body  on  a  board,  and 


gain  the  road.  Fanny  is  there  waiting  for  them. 
He  perceives  her  face  in  the  gray  dusk,  and  does 
not  recognize  her — positively,  he  does  not  recog 
nize  her!  She  neither  shrieks  nor  speaks;  she 
pushes  him  away  when  he,  realizing  who  it  is, 
tries  to  support  her.  She  follows  the  men  car 
rying  that  motionless  burden,  over  which  Roland 
throws  a  blanket  j^iven  him  by  the  station-mas 
ter's  wife. 

She  follows,  walking  steadily  enough,  down 
the  middle  of  the  street ;  her  veil  is  up ;  her 
awful  face  and  dead  eyes  staring  straight  before 
her. 

Just  so  she  looks  as  she  sits  now  in  this 
chamber.  She  has  not  stirred  from  the  moment 
when  she  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  bed  where  they 
laid  that  wounded,  senseless  form. 

How  long  Roland  is  alone  with  her  and  it  (he 
calls  the  sjlent  figure  on  the  bed  that  from  the 
first,  shuddering  as  he  does  so)  he  can  not  tell. 
He  remembers  speaking  to  her  on  the  surgeon's 
entrance.  No  answer ;  no  movement. 

How  long  since  the  doctor  arrived  he  does  not 
know ;  time  seems  no  longer  to  exist.  If  it  be 
only  moments  or  centuries,  it  is  all  the  same  to 
Roland. 

There  has  been  no  need  to  dress  wounds, 
to  examine  the  passive  limbs ;  that  hurt  at  the 
back  of  the  head  is  enough.  As  soon  as  he  has 
glanced  at  this,  the  surgeon  draws  Roland  aside. 
It  is  useless  to  hunt  for  tender  words,  even  if  the 
young  practitioner  were  the  person  to  do  it,  which 
he  is  not. 

The  wounded  man  is  dying !  Nothing  can  be 
done;  nothing. 

Does  he  suffer?  will  he,  before  the  last  is 
over  ? 

No;  there  is  not  the  least  probability  that 
consciousness  will  return. 

Hope?  aid? 

The  surgeon  smiles,  and  shrugs  his  shoulders 
in  compassionate  contempt  of  some  wild  proposi 
tion  from  Roland. 

Every  thing  will  be  over  long  before  any  phy 
sician  could  arrive  from  Paris.  There  is  a  little 
breath  left ;  nothing  more.  To  all  intents  and 
purposes  it  is  a  dead  man  stretched  yonder  on 
the  bed. 

The  moments  pass.  The  two  men  standing 
aloof  in  the  shadow  are  so  still  that  Fanny  does 
not  know  they  are  there.  It  would  make  no 
difference  if  she  did ;  no  difference,  though  the 
whole  world  were  looking  on. 

Whenever  the  pallid  hands  move  convulsive 
ly,  she  kisses  them  with  her  white  lips.  She 
brushes  the  damp,  golden  curls  back  from  the 
forehead,  which  already  feels  like  a  bit  of  polish 
ed  marble,  and  bends  her  head  to  catcli  if  the 
quivering  mouth  frames  intelligible  words.  Only 
to  hear  him  utter  her  name!  She  cnn  bear  ev 
ery  thing,  here  and  hereafter,  if  only  he  is  per 
mitted  so  much  as  to  murmur  her  name. 


182 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


The  head  moves ;  the  misty  eyes  settle  upon 
her  face,  but  she  knows  they  do  not  see  her. 
The  lips  part;  they  struggle  to  form  words. 
She  stoops  to  catch  them. 

"Marian,  Marian!"  the  slow-moving  lips  re 
peat.  It  is  only  a  faint  whisper,  but  it  sounds 
loud  and  clear  to  Fanny's  ears.  "  Marian,  Mar 
ian  !"  This  is  to  be  part  of  her  punishment; 
she  realizes  it  through  all  her  numbness  and 
deadness ;  the  hardest,  the  crudest  part — he  is 
not  to  know  her — he  is  to  be  Marian's  at  the 
last. 

The  surgeon  has  noticed  the  movement; 
he  draws  nearer  the  bed ;  he  touches  lloland's 
shoulder. 

"  It  will  not'  last  much  longer,"  his  voice  says 
in  Roland's  ear.  ' '  The  stupor  is  lifting  ;  it  will 
soon  be  over  now." 

The  surgeon  is  a  heathen,  so  he  does  not 
share  the  horror  of  Madame  Moineau  and  the 
household  below  stairs  because  the  stranger  is 
dying  without  priestly  aid,  like  a  dog.  The  sur 
geon  considers  mankind  only  a  superior  race  of 
dogs  that  have  learned  to  walk  on  their  hind  legs 
and  train  their  fore-paws  into  hands.  Death  is 
as  much  annihilation  to  one  species  as  the  other, 
and  the  surgeon  is  never  so  proud  of  holding  firm 
to  his  faith  as  when  he  sees  a  human  being  die. 

Anyway,  if  Fanny  and  Roland  could  think 
enough  to  share  madame's  dread,  there  is  noth 
ing  to  be  done.  The  village  cure  has  gone  up  to 
Paris,  and  were  he  here  at  this  moment  he  could 
not  employ  his  priestly  gifts  to  assist  a  heretic. 
Some  dim  thought  does  at  lust  cross  the  heavi 
ness  of  Roland's  brain,  and  the  death-bed  seems 
more  awful  to  him  ;  then  he  remembers  that  even 
the  voice  of  the  First  Apostle,  could  it  sound 
through  the  chamber,  would  be  of  no  avail ;  no 
tone  of  warning  or  promise  of  hope  could  reach 
those  dead  ears. 

Fanny  has  never  asked  a  question— has  not 
uttered  a  sound ;  is  unconscious  who  passes  in  or 
out.  She  is  on  her  knees  by  the  bed ;  her  gaze 
is  fastened  upon  that  white  face ;  her  ears  strain 
ed  to  catch  some  further  utterance  from  the  blue 
shrunken  lips  which  at  times  quiver  convulsively. 

The  eyes  are  wide  open — those  marvelous  blue 
eyes ;  they  are  raised  to  the  ceiling ;  there  is  a 
mist  over  them — no  mind  or  intelligence  left  in 
their  blank,  unwandering  gaze;  but  they  are 
beautiful  still.  Now  and  again  the  hands  move 
slightly  above  the  counterpane ;  the  fingers  knot 
themselves  together  till  the  great  veins  show 
black  and  distended  across  their  whiteness.  For 
minutes  together  the  breath  is  labored  and  diffi 
cult,  then  so  faint  that  it  seems  to  cease ;  the 
hands  stop  their  restless  movements ;  the  blue 
lips  part  and  are  still. 

Often  for  an  instant  Roland  and  the  surgeon, 
watching  at  a  distance,  think  that  it  is  all  over ; 
but  each  time  they  perceive  their  error,  for  Fan 
ny  bends  her  head  close  to  the  pillow — listens, 


then  resumes  her  former  attitude;  so  they  know 
that  the  struggling  breath  has  begun  again. 
Each  time  the  'interval  she  keeps  her  head  bent 
rows  a  little  longer — almost  imperceptibly  so, 
except  to  the  surgeon,  who  holds  his  watch  in 
one  hand  and  keeps  count  of  the  seconds ;  he 
knows  what  the  lengthening  space  between  each 
spasmodic  effort  means.  But  Roland  does  not 
understand  when  the  surgeon  points  first  to  the 
minute-hand  of  his  dainty  time-piece,  then,  as  he 
seats  himself,  makes  a  gesture  toward  the  bed. 

Indeed,  Roland's  attention  is  concentrated  on 
Fanny ;  he  can  not  think  much  even  of  the  dy 
ing  man ;  nor  is  his  own  suffering  of  any  conse 
quence  ;  he  can  only  remember  hers,  and  share 
it  as  if  his  mute  sympathy  might  somehow  help 
her  to  endure.  She  has  thrown  off  her  hat  and 
mantle;  he  stands  so  that  he  can  see  her  profile ; 
it  is  like  a  face  which  has  frozen  slowly,  with  an 
awful  anguish  upon  it — whose  impress  can  never 
wear  out  or  change. 

The  moments  pass. 

Roland  is  dimly  conscious  of  feeling  sick  and 
faint  from  the  horrors  he  has  gone  through. 
Then,  while  still  watching  Fanny,  for  he  watches 
her  always  and  thinks  of  her  always,  he  finds 
coming  up  through  the  slow  pain  of  his  thoughts 
a  stupid,  dull  wonder  where  the  departing  soul  is 
going ;  how  much  or  how  long  the  deeds  done 
here  must  affect  its  progress  in  the  far  beyond. 
He  recollects  that  Fanny's  agony  must  be  in 
God's  sight  a  petition  for  mercy,  and  he  tries  to 
pray,  too,  for  the  spirit  that  is  going  forth  into 
the  mysterious  unknown,  and  is  aware  that  he 
only  prays  for  her. 

A  sound  interrupts  his  dull  meditations  ;  it  is 
a  moan,  very  low,  but  oh !  a  sound  to  haunt  one 
for  years.  It  comes  from  Fanny ;  it  has  brought 
even  the  lymphatic  surgeon  to  his  feet ;  it  seems 
to  Roland  that  its  indescribable  anguish  fairly 
cleaves  his  own  soul  in  twain.  The  surgeon 
starts  to  his  feet ;  perhaps  for  a  second,  even 
through  the  coarse  armor  of  his  materialistic 
creeds,  there  pierces  a  sudden  perception  that  he 
has  heard  the  strange  mystery  whose  existence 
he  denies — a  human  soul — ciy  out  in  the  purga 
torial  agony  of  its  despair.  But  this  time  it  is  he 
who  is  checked  by  Roland ;  the  two  stand  quite 
still  among  the  shadows. 

"Marian!  Marian!"  The  white  lips  have 
uttered  the  name  again — the  misty  eyes  resting 
always  on  Fanny's  face.  "Marian!" 

The  two  men  can  now  catch  the  murmur  of 
that  hoarse  whisper,  though  they  can  not  distin 
guish  the  words ;  but  Fanny  does.  The  awful 
voice  of  the  last  trumpet  would  not  ring  more 
loudly  in  her  ears. 

Another  pause,  then  the  broken  whispers  are 
renewed. 

"We  will  go  up  to  Hymettus,  and  see  the  sun 
rise,  Marian,"  the  gasping  voice  murmurs,  while 
the  glazed  eyes  are  still  fixed  upon  Fanny. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


183 


"  How  cold  it  is — so  dark !  Never  mind,  dear  ; 
the  sun  will  rise  soon —  Marian !  Marian ! " 

She  can  not  bear  it.  She  is  stunned,  dead, 
she  thinks ;  but  she  can  not  bear  it.  She  must 
have  one  word — one  conscious  glance.  Marian 
shall  not  separate  her  from  him  on  the  portals  of 
the  unseen  :  he  is  hers — hers — not  Marian's. 

She  puts  her  lips  close  to  his  ear ;  as  she  does 
so  she  remembers  his  once  telling  her  that  if  he 
were  dead  and  buried  he  should  hear  her  voice. 
She  calls, 

"Talbot!  Talbot !" 

The  knotted  hands  part ;  they  stretch  aimless 
ly  out,  but  not  toward  her.  The  head  moves ; 
a  ray  of  light  crosses  the  cold  mist  which  over 
shadows  the  eyes ;  but  now  they  do  not  look  at 
her.  Eyes  and  hands  are  raised  toward  some 
fancied  shape,  regardless  of  her  presence,  though 
her  appeal  has  struck  through  the  torpor  and 
roused  his  soul  to  listen,  but  not  to  her — not  to 
her! 

"I  hear  you,  Marian — I  hear  you!  I  can't 
see.  I  must  have  lost  you  in  the  dark.  Stand 
still,  darling ;  the  sun  is  going  to  rise.  I  shall 
find  you  then.  It  is  cold — cold!  Don't  be 
frightened,  Marian ;  the  sun  will  be  up  soon — 
very  soon —  Marian ! " 

The  last  utterance  of  that  name  reaches  Ro 
land.  He  leaves  the  surgeon's  side;  he  goes 
near  Fanny,  but  stands  where  she  can  not  see 
him.  She  groans  once  more.  Marian — always 
Marian !  She  must  try  again  :  if  she  can  only 
have  a  word — a  single  word ! 

"Talbot!  Talbot!" 

Oh,  that  whisper !  —  its  agony  might  have 
brought  a  ghost  back  from  beyond  the  stars. 
But  Talbot's  eyes  are  straining  through  the  dark, 
up  to  the  top  of  Mount  Hymetttis,  to  ca,tch  the 
first  gleam  of  light  which  shall  show  him  Mar 
ian's  face,  and  Talbot's  gasping  voice  is  uttering 
tender  words  to  soothe  Marian's  distress. 

"Wife— little  wife !  How  did  I  lose  you  ? — 
where  have  I  been  ?  I  thought  I  was  never  to 
have  you  by  me  any  more.  Close  to  me,  are  you 
not  ? — I  shall  see  your  face  soon.  No  more  trou 
ble—no  more  wrong.  I  love  you,  Marian!  I 
don't  know  where  I  have  been  since  I  lost  you  in 
the  dark ;  but  stand  still  till  I  come  to  you.  A 
new  life,  Marian — when  the  sun  rises — when  the 
sun  rises." 

It  seems  to  Fanny  that  hours  pass  during  the 
slow,  broken  utterance  of  these  words.  Hours 
— nay,  years  —  centuries.  She  will  not  speak 
again;  she  will  crouch  there  dumb,  since  her 
voice  turns  to  Marian's  in  his  ears.  She  is  con 
scious — if  she  can  be  said  to  be  conscious  of  any 
thing  but  her  despair— of  a  fierce,  mad  jealousy 
even  at  this  moment.  She  would  keep  that 
struggling  soul  out  of  heaven  if  she  could,  if 
heaven  must  give  him  to  Marian  —  to  any  but 
her. 

The  laboring  breath  grows  fainter,  the  hands 


drop,  the  eyes  are  turned  upward  so  that  the 
pupils  are  scarcely  visible.  Fanny's  head  is  bent 
very  long  this  time ;  Roland  thinks  it  is  all  over. 
But  the  breath  begins  again ;  the  hands  stretch 
out  anew.  There  is  more  intelligence  in  the 
eyes,  more  strength  in  the  voice  than  there  has 
been  yet.  The  surgeon  knows  what  it  means ; 
he  moves  closer  to  the  bed. 

' '  Marian,  Marian !  Is  it  not  almost  day  ? 
Where  have  I  been  ?  I  thought  I  had  lost  you — 
forever,  some  one  said — forever :  who  said  that  ? 
and  my  fault.  Forgive  —  forgive!  Is  the  sun 
rising  ?  I  want  to  see  your  face.  What  are  you 
saying,  Marian  ?  Pray  ? — I  can't  remember  the 
words — I  can't  remember  the  words  !  Oh,  if  I 
can't  say  them,  the  sun  will  never  rise !  I  shall 
never  find  you — Marian,  Marian — and  I  can't 
remember." 

The  voice  is  a  whisper  still,  but  sharp  and  ter 
rible.  The  hands  writhe  and  twist ;  the  head 
rolls  about  in  a  faint  convulsion.  Then  a  silence 
which  seems  endless ;  but  he  suflers  always. 
Fanny  knows  that  she  must  speak.  Her  voice 
must  bring  Marian  close  beside  him  again — her 
voice ! 

"Talbot!  Talbot!" 

The  glazed  eyes  wander;  the  hands  grope 
about ;  it  is  as  if  the  dulled  soul  strained  to  listen 
from  a  great  distance. 

"Talbot!  Talbot!" 

A  smile,  strangely  sweet,  flits  over  the  pallid 
lips. 

"I  hear,  Marian;  I  hear!  'Our  Father!' — 
I  remember  the  words  now.  'Our  Father!' — 
Marian,  Marian,  the  sun  is  rising — I  shall  see 
your  face — the  sun — ' 

The  breath  ceases ;  this  time  it  does  not  come 
back  any  more. 

When  the  surgeon  has  counted  five  minutes  on 
his  watch,  he  touches  Roland  Spencer's  arm,  and 
makes  a  gesture  toward  the  woman  kneeling  by 
the  bed.  Roland  motions  him  not  to  disturb 
her ;  the  two  men  steal  out  of  the  chamber  and 
close  the  door. 

"  Give  her  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  Roland  says. 

"Did  you  tell  me  it  was  his  wife?"  the  sur 
geon  asks. 

lie  receives  for  answer  a  look  which  sends 
him  straight  down -stairs.  He  has  always  be 
lieved  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  a  race  of  madmen  ; 
he  is  more  firm  in  his  belief  than  ever. 

Twenty  minutes,  then  Roland  enters  the 
room.  Fanny  is  yet  kneeling  by  the  bed.  Ho 
bends  over  her,  and  passes  his  nrm  about  her 
waist. 

"You  must  come  away  now  for  a  while,"  ho 
says,  softly.  "  I  will  bring  you  back  again." 

She  does  not  speak — does  not  offer  any  oppo 
sition.  She  rises,  stands  motionless  for  a  litth>, 
and  looks  with  n  strange  longing  nt  the  still  face : 
she  may  not  even  kiss  it ;  he  belonged  to  Mariaii 
when  he  died. 


134 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

ALL   ALONE. 

' '  HE  may  still  be  alive ;  I  must  be  able  to  tell 
Marian  that  I  was  there ! "  Miss  Devereux  ex 
claimed,  as  soon  as  she  could  sufficiently  collect 
her  senses  after  the  first  horror  and  confusion 
caused  by  Spencer's  telegram  to  think  or  speak. 
"I  must  start  at  once." 

"You  will  let  me  go  with  you  ?"  returned  Al- 
leyne,  almost  as  pale  and  shaken  as  she  was  her 
self. 

" Thanks, "she  said,  hurriedly ;  " you  are  very 
good.  I  shall  be  ready  in  a  moment,  if  you  will 
please  ring  for  a  carriage. " 

She  hastened  away  to  her  dressing-room.  Her 
mother  and  Miss  Cordy  had  come  home ;  but 
of  course  nothing  could  be  urged  against  her 
journey.  Indeed,  the  old  maid  insisted  upon 
accompanying  Helen,  and  Mrs.  Devereux  was 
easy  in  her  mind  since  Alleyne  was  to  go  also. 

The  three  drove  to  the  station.  It  was  so 
short  a  time  before  the  evening  express  would 
leave  that  Alleyne  could  not  procure  a  special 
train ;  they  must  wait  for  the  night  mail. 

Then  a  delay  which,  brief  as  it  was,  seemed 
endless.  But  they  were  off  at  last.  What  an 
hour's  journey  they  had  !  Alleyne  had  secured 
a  compartment,  so  they  were  not  annoyed  by  the 
presence  of  strangers.  For  a  time  Miss  Cordy 
shivered  and  shook,  and  murmured  at  intervals, 

"  So  awful !  so  awful !" 

"Please  don't,"  Miss  Devereux  at  length  said, 
almost  peevishly,  so  fretted  by  the  little  moan 
that  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

Then  even  the  old  maid  was  silent,  leaning 
back  in  her  seat,  and  weeping  noiselessly  behind 
her  hideous  blue  veil ;  trying  to  pray,  too,  for 
the  peace  of  the  departing  soul,  but  troubled  by 
the  thought  that  it  might  have  already  gone  forth 
on  its  mysterious  pilgrimage,  and  afraid  that  in 
such  case  she  should  be  committing  some  Rit 
ualistic  or  Papistical  sin,  yet  conscious,  in  the 
midst  of  her  distress,  of  wishing  that  she  could 
share  the  faith  which  enables  men  to  follow  their 
dear  ones  in  prayer  beyond  the  confines  of  this 
mortal  sphere. 

Alleyne  was  thinking  of  many  tilings — per 
haps  not  so  much  of  the  dismal  errand  upon 
which  they  were  bent,  as  of  matters  connected 
with  himself  and  persons  mixed  up  with  his  life, 
lie  was  shocked  and  horror-stricken;  but  he 
and  Castlemaine  had  never  been  on  other  terms 
than  those  of  the  most  distant  and  ceremonious 
acquaintanceship,  so  naturally  his  mind  seized 
and  clung  to  some  possibility  of  hope,  as  it  could 
not  have  done  had  the  sufferer  been  a  friend. 

He  was  thinking  of  Fanny  St.  Simon's  disap 
pearance  ;  of  Miss  Devereux's  denial  in  regard 
to  the  writing  of  that  heartless  letter  which  had 
desolated  the  later  years  of  his  youth.  Probably 
in  this  world  the  mystery  would  never  be  cleared 


up ;  even  were  such  an  event  to  happen,  the 
discovery  coujd  avail  nothing  now.  He  had 
chosen,  he  had  arranged  his  destiny.  A  plain 
duty  lay  before  him — to  find  Fanny,  and  make 
her  his  wife  without  delay,  and  so  shield  her 
from  the  consequences  of  St.  Simon's  crime. 

He  could  see  Helen  Devereux's  pale  face  in 
the  lamp-light.  How  he  wondered  if  she  were 
remembering  it  was  strange  they  two  should  thus 
be  journeying  together ;  if  she  recollected,  as  he 
did,  a  pleasure  jaunt  they  had  once  taken  in 
America  with  a  party  of  friends ;  if — 

But  he  must  not  meditate  about  her  in  any 
way  except  to  rejoice  that  she  had  been  proved 
innocent;  for  her  assertion  was  proof  to  him, 
though  formerly  he  would  not  have  believed  that 
he  could  so  consider  it.  She  was  neither  vain, 
frivolous,  nor  false.  He  had  a  right  to  rejoice 
at  this,  and  to  repent  his  former  harsh  judgment, 
before  they  separated  forever  —  for  they  must  so 
separate — in  this  world ;  he  could  never  run  the 
risk  of  meeting  her  again.  His  duty  was  plain, 
and  with  Heaven's  help  he  would  fulfill  it. 

Then  he  heard  Helen  Devereux  say  aloud, 

"For  Marian's  sake!  for  Marian's  sake!" 

He  knew  that  she  was  praying  for  the  dying 
man's  soul,  and  involuntarily  uttered  the  petition 
nloud.  Straightway  there  sounded  across  the 
slow  pain  of  his  thoughts  those  mysterious  words 
of  Holy  Writ,  "After  death  the  judgment ;"  and 
found  himself  repeating  them  over  and  over,  till 
they  hurt  him,  as  if  they  had  been  the  utterance 
of  some  unseen  speaker  passing  sentence  on  that 
spirit,  and  tried  to  remember  every  kind  or  good 
thing  he  had  ever  heard  of  the  sufferer,  and  to  rec 
ollect  that  God's  judgment  was  not  like  man's. 

Then  the  engine-whistle  shrieked ;  the  train 
halted  at  last;  the  guard  shouted  "Cesson!" 
with  all  the  might  of  his  brazen  lungs.  As  a 
rule,  the  express  made  no  pause  until  it  reached 
Fontainebleau ;  but  Alleyne  had  found  means 
to  render  the  officials  amenable  on  this  occasion. 
They  got  out  of  the  compartment — it  seemed  so 
long  to  all  of  them  since  they  had  taken  their 
seats  therein — and  hurried  through  the  station  in 
search  of  a  carriage. 

"Ask  him  ;  he  is  sure  to  know,"  Miss  Dever 
eux  whispered,  pointing  to  the  coachman  of  the 
one  vehicle  in  waiting. 

Alleyne  understood  her  meaning,  and  asked 
the  question  her  lips  refused  to  frame.  The  son 
of  Jehu,  like  any  Gaul,  could  talk  fast  enough  at 
most  times ;  but  he  only  shook  his  head  now. 
He  could  not  have  answered  more  plainly. 
They  entered  the  carriage,  and  were  driven  rap 
idly  away. 

Fanny  St.  Simon  was  still  kneeling  in  the 
room  where  the  dead  man  lay  clad  and  straight 
ened  for  his  last  sleep.  Roland  had  kept  his 
word ;  he  brought  her  back  as  soon  as  the  neces 
sary  offices  were  performed,  let  her  go  in  alone, 
and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


185 


Spencer  was  walking  up  and  down  the  long 
stone  corridor  :  his  tread  echoed  from  the  farther 
end,  growing  louder  as  he  approached  the  cen 
tre,  till  the  sound  was  like  that  of  ghostly  foot 
steps  coming  to  meet  him.  As  he  moved  on, 
they  seemed  to  pass  him  and  come  from  the  di 
rection  he  had  left — slow,  measured,  solemn — 
till  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  a  superstitious 
feeling  that  phantoms  were  sharing  his  weary 
march. 

lie  was  roused  by  the  noise  of  a  carriage  driv 
ing  into  the  court- yard.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  Miss  Devereux  might  have  come  herself;  it 
would  be  like  her.  As  he  descended  the  stairs 
he  heard  her  voice  addressing  Madame  Moineau ; 
heard  another  voice,  whose  accents  even  at  that 
moment  woke  a  wild  rage  in  his  soul. 

Alleyne  was  first  to  perceive  him  as  he  reach 
ed  the  lower  step. 

"Spencer! "he  called,  hurrying  forward  as  he 
spoke. 

Roland  stopped  short  and  confronted  him, 
while  a  stern  frown  darkened  the  pallor  of  his 
face. 

"  I  promised  her  not  to  quarrel  with  you,  and 
I  will  not,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  rang  out  the 
more  fiercely  from  his  very  efforts  to  render  it 
cold  and  quiet.  "But  I  did  not  promise  to  be 
civil,  and  by  the  Lord  I  won't!" 

Helen  Devereux  was  standing  just  behind  Al 
leyne  ;  both  listeners  knew  that  Itoland  had  seen 
Fanny  St.  Simon. 

"Hush! "Helen  exclaimed,  crossing  to  the 
young  man's  side,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  "  This  is  no  time  for  harsh  words !  Ro 
land  Spencer,  there  was  a  dreadful  mistake ;  Mr. 
Alleyne  never  meant  to  send  back  that  note." 

"I  believe  it  since  you  tell  me  so," returned 
Spencer,  sullenly. 

"Do  you  know  where  Miss  St.  Simon  is?" 
Alleyne  asked,  with  an  anxiety  which  the  other 
could  not  help  perceiving. 

Spencer  hesitated. 

"If  you  know,  tell  us  at  once,"  Helen  said, 
firmly.  "Mr.  Alleyne  had  already  suffered 
enough  for  what  was  no  fault  of  his  ;  he  has  a 
right  to  ask  the  question." 

There  was  no  possibility  of  keeping  Fanny's 
presence  a  secret ;  he  only  paused  for  an  instant 
before  replying,  in  order  to  search  for  some  plau 
sible  answer  to  what  would  be  the  next  question, 
but  his  troubled  brain  could  invent  no  excuse  for 
her  presence. 

"  Where  is  Miss  St.  Simon  ?"  repeated  Helen. 

"She  is  here,"  Roland  answered. 

"Thank  God !"  he  heard  Alleyne  say. 

"  Thank  God !"  echoed  Miss  Devereux. 

It  did  not  strike  either  her  or  Alleyne  as  sin 
gular  that  Fanny  should  be  in  the  house.  The 
thought  which  occurred  to  both  was  that  she 
had  confided  her  plans  to  Spencer  ns  she  might 
have  done  to  a  brother ;  that  he  had  accompanied 


her  so  far  on  her  journey,  and  by  some  merciful 
delay  they  had  been  permitted  to  be  with  Cas- 
tlemaine  at  the  last. 

"I  thank  you," said  Alleyne,  holding  out  his 
hand ;  but  Roland  did  not  seem  to  notice  the 
gesture. 

Helen  Devereux  rapidly  explained  to  him  in  a 
whisper  how  the  error  in  regard  to  the  letter  had 
occurred.  When  she  had  finished,  Roland  took 
a  step  forward ;  this  time  it  was  he  who  offered 
his  hand,  and  Alleyne  understood  and  accepted 
the  mute  expression  of  amity  and  excuse. 

"I  beg  you  will  tell  Miss  St.  Simon  I  am 
here,"  he  said. 

"I  think  you  had  better  wait  till  morning," 
the  young  man  replied.  "  She  is  terribly  shaken. 
I  suppose  you  do  not  know — we  saw  the  acci 
dent." 

He  said  this,  and  held  up  his  hand ;  they  nn- 
.derstood  that  he  could  not  speak  or  hear  a  word 
further  in  reference  to  the  awful  catastrophe. 

After  a  short  silence,  during  which  Helen 
Devereux  was  aware  of  thinking  that  the  task  of 
breaking  the  news  to  Marian  must  devolve  upon 
her;  thinking  at  the  same  time  that  the  blow 
might  in  reality  be  a  mercy,  though  even  through 
that  under-current  of  thought  she  was  recalling 
so  much  that  was  good  and  noble  in  Talbot,  and 
regretting  him  with  her  whole  heart,  Allcyue  re 
iterated  his  wish  to  see  Fanny.  The  tone  was 
so  earnest  that  his  voice  rather  than  his  words 
held  something  imperative  in  the  pleading.  But, 
indeed,  Spencer  had  no  further  excuse  to  offer. 
The  only  thing  he  could  do  was  himself  to  pre 
pare  her  for  the  meeting,  instead  of  allowing  a 
servant  to  carry  the  news  of  the  arrivals. 

On  entering  the  house  Helen  had  confided  Miss 
Cordy  to  Madame  Moineau.  The  short- petti- 
coated  autocrat  of  the  inn  ha,d  shown  the  old 
maid  to  a  bedroom,  and  was  preparing  to  com 
fort  her  with  poor  tea,  and  a  lengthy  account  of 
the  accident,  whose  horrors  they  would  both 
weep  over  and  enjoy  in  a  lugubrious  fashion  ;  so 
Miss  Devereux  was  not  obliged  to  occupy  her 
self  with  the  good  little  spinster  nt  present.  She 
followed  Spencer  upstairs,  and  Alleyne  accom 
panied  her. 

They  reached  the  gallery,  and  walked  down 
the  echoing  floor  among  the  shadows.  The 
echoes  sounded  loud  and  angry  now,  as  if  a  whole 
group  of  ghosts  were  disputing  their  progress.  It 
was  not  only  the  fancy  of  Roland's  overwrought 
brain  ;  Miss  Devereux  and  Alleyne  had  the  same 
thought  in  their  minds. 

Roland  opened  the  door  of  a  salon  in  which 
Madame  Moinean  had  ordered  lights  to  be  put. 

"  I  wish  you  would  stay  here,"  he  said,  abrupt 
ly,  standing  aside  for  both  to  enter. 

They  obeyed  in  silence ;  he  crossed  the  cor 
ridor,  and  entered  the  chamber  where  Fanny 
knelt  by  the  dead  man's  bed.  Her  cheek  was 
resting  on  the  counterpane,  and  turned  so  that 


186 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


she  could  gaze  at  the  face,  which  had  settled  into 
an  expression  of  peace — a  face,  Roland  thought, 
that  looked  less  like  the  countenance  of  a  corpse 
than  her  own. 

She  did  not  stir  on  his  entrance ;  was  evident 
ly  unconscious  of  his  presence.  Koland  bent 
over  her,  and  whispered, 

"  Come  away  for  a  minute ;  come,  Fanny." 

At  fr>st  she  did  not  appear  to  understand,  and 
turned  impatiently  from  him  with  a  gesture  half 
of  annoyance,  half  of  pain.  He  moved  aside 
without  a  word.  Presently  she  glanced  mechan 
ically  toward  him.  He  had  gone  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  and  was  standing  by  the  win 
dow  gazing  out  into  the  peaceful  night.  The 
yellow  moonbeams  floated  in  through  the  part 
ing  he  had  made  in  the  sombre  curtains,  and 
traced  weird  characters  on  the  polished  floor, 
like  hieroglyphics  of  some  higher  language  than 
mortal  sense  could  decipher.  Slowly  she  trav 
ersed  the  chamber — in  the  same  mechanical  fash 
ion — and  stood  beside  him,  staring  out  at  the  soft 
radiance ;  but  he  could  see  that  the  glazed  eyes 
distinguished  nothing. 

He  told  her  who  had  arrived ;  repeated  the 
message  which  he  had  found  it  impossible  to 
give  at  the  bedside. 

She  looked  full  in  his  face  with  an  awful 
smile. 

"Both  here  —  both!"  she  said,  and  had  he 
heard  the  voice  without  seeing  her  he  should  not 
have  recognized  it.  "Both  here!  Yes;  I  will 
go  if  they  want  me ;  I  will  go." 

"Wait  till  to-morrow,"  he  urged,  partly  from 
a  desire  to  spare  her,  partly  because  a  vague 
dread  which  he  could  not  comprehend  started 
up  in  his  soul  at  the  sight  of  her  smile,  at  the 
tone  of  her  voice.  "Let  me  say  you  are  worn 
out ;  that  you  will  see  them  in  the  morning — " 

"Come  with  me  ;  I  want  you,"  she  interrupt 
ed,  not  heeding  his  appeal.  "  Come,  I  say !" 

She  moved  past  lloland,  opened  the  door, 
traversed  the  gallery,  and  entered  the  opposite 
chamber;  he  followed.  She  went  in  so  noise 
lessly  that  she  was  close  beside  Miss  Devereux 
and  Alleyne  before  either  perceived  her.  For 
an  instant  they  could  not  have  been  much  more 
startled  had  the  dead  man  appeared  in  his  wind 
ing-sheet  than  they  were  at  the  sight  of  that 
rigid,  ashen  face,  the  glare  of  those  wide-open 
eyes  which  had  no  life  left  in  them,  that  form 
swaying  uncertainly  to  and  fro  like  a  person 
walking  in  deep  sleep.  She  spoke  before  either 
could  move  or  utter  a  word,  and  her  voice  sound 
ed  as  dead  as  her  eyes  looked. 

"What  do  you  want,  Gregory  Alleyne?"  she 
asked.  "You  have  nothing  to  do  with  me! 
What  brought  you  here  ?" 

Helen  Devereux  hurried  forward  ;  Fanny  cast 
one  glance  at  her  which  riveted  her  where  she 
stood — a  glance  so  terrible  that  it  held  Koland, 
who  caught  it,  motionless  too. 


"Fanny,"  Alleyne  said,  as  soon  as  he  could 
find  words,  too  much  agitated  to  notice  the  look 
which  had  appalled  the  others;  "Fanny,  listen 
a  moment." 

"Do  you  listen, "returned  she  iu  the  same 
hard,  pitiless  tone,  like  the  voice  of  a  ghost  that 
was  past  sympathy  for  him  or  herself. 

"Yes,  but  let  me  tell'  you,"  he  pleaded. 
"This  is  no  time  for  explanations." 

"It  is  a  good  time,"  she  interrupted;  then 
paused,  gazing  about  as  if  trying  to  remember 
something  she  wished  to  add. 

He  went  on. 

"I  sent  back  your  note  by  mistake — Miss 
Devereux  and  Spencer  know.  I  was  very  ill. 
I  did  not  know  what  had  happened. " 

He  stopped  abruptly ;  he  was  looking  at  her 
now ;  her  face  fairly  froze  any  further  power  of 
speech. 

"  Yes,  he  is  dead,"  she  answered. 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  away  from  him — 
looked  at  Helen  Devereux.  Once  beyond  the 
spell  of  those  terrible  eyes,  he  found  voice  again. 

"  Not  that — oh,  so  dreadful ! — but  I  did  not 
mean  that,"  he  said.  "I  meant  about  your 
uncle." 

"I  had  forgotten,"  she  muttered:  now  her 
gaze  wandered  from  Helen  ;  she  stood  staring 
straight  before  her. 

"I  have  been  searching  for  you  all  day;  Miss 
Devereux  will  tell  you,"  he  continued.  "  Noth 
ing  is  changed  between  us ;  remember  that — 
nothing." 

She  seemed  to  listen  now.  If  they  had 
thought  her  face  awful  before,  they  forgot  their 
dread  in.  the  new  horror  which  rose  in  their 
minds  as  they  watched  her.  But  Alleyne  said, 

"I  can  not  wait;  I  can  not  have  you  think 
me  base  and  mean,  though  it  is  a  sad  moment 
to  speak  of  such  things,  with  our  poor  friend  ly 
ing  yonder — " 

"Your  friend !"  she  gasped.  "  Why,  he  hated 
you !  oh,  how  he  hated  you!" 

lloland  moved  toward  her;  he  knew  now 
what  she  meant  to  tell.  Even  at  this  time  he 
could  not  bear  that  she  should  humiliate  herself 
before  Gregory  Alleyne. 

"There  can  be  no  more  talk  to-night,"  he 
said,  hurriedly.  "Miss  St.  Simon  must  go  to 
bed  at  once." 

"At  once !"  repeated  Helen  Devereux,  in  a 
frightened  tone,  for  though  she  could  not  have 
told  how,  she  comprehended  what  the  woman's 
revelation  was  to  be. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  roused  Fanny  into 
morS  signs  of  vitality  than  she  had  yet  shown. 
She  shivered,  and  turned  her  back  on  the  speaker. 

"  Come,  Fanny  !"  urged  Spencer. 

Fanny  looked  at  him  ;  her  features  relaxed — 
worked  slightly. 

"My  good  lloland!"  she  said,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


187 


He  hastened  to  place  her  in  a  chair,  for  her 
whole  frame  had  begun  to  totter  like  a  statue 
smitten  at  its  base,  and  just  ready  to  fall. 

"Go  with  me;  let  me  take  you  away,"  lie 
pleaded. 

She  waved  him  off;  sat  for  an  instant  glan 
cing  from  him  to  Alleyne  and  back  again  ;  then 
slowly,  reluctantly,  as  if  obeying  some  power 
which  her  will  was  unable  to  combat,  her  dead 
eyes  settled  on  Helen  Devereux's  face,  and  re 
mained  there. 

"You  are  all  three  here,"  she  said,  in  that 
slow,  difficult  voice,  scarcely  louder  than  a  whis 
per,  yet  more  distinct  and  fuller  of  agony  than  a 
shriek  could  have  been  ;  "all  three  here,  and  he 
lies  yonder.  Yes;  I  must  tell — I  must!" 

"Nothing  to-night.  Come  away,  Fanny!" 
cried  Spencer. 

She  did  not  hear.  Her  eyes  were  fastened  on 
Helen  Devereux's  face,  and  never  left  it,  though 
she  addressed  only  her  betrothed  husband. 

"Gregory  Alleyne,"  she  said,  "did  you  not 
tell  me  you  had  come  here  to  say  that  nothing 
was  changed?" 

"Nothing,  Fanny,"  he  answered;  "nothing. 
See,  this  is  the  note  I  wrote ;  I  put  your  own  in 
the  envelope  by  mistake." 

She  took  the  paper  which  he  held  out,  and 
glanced  over  it.  For  an  instant  some  strange 
struggle  was  apparent  in  her  countenance,  then 
she  let  the  letter  drop  on  the  floor,  and  cried, 

"I  don't  want  to  tell  the  truth,  but  I  must! 
This  is  the  second  time  to-day  that  I  have  been 
beaten." 

"Fanny  !"  Roland  called  again  ;  but  she  was 
deaf  to  his  appeal. 

"I  wish  I  could  marry  you,"  she  continued ; 
"  I'd  like  to  keep  you  away  from  her  yet ;  but  I 
can  not." 

Now  even  Roland  thought  her  senses  wander 
ing.  The  three  gathered  about  her,  each  utter 
ing  incoherent  words.  She  put  out  her  hands 
toward  Helen  with  a  gesture  of  repulsion ;  once 
more  enough  of  life  flamed  into  her  face  to  ex 
press  loathing  and  hatred.  She  spoke  again,  and 
again  her  voice  silenced  them.  Still  she  address 
ed  Alleyne;  still  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Miss 
Devereux.  Roland  wanted  yet  to  stop  her  con 
fession  ;  he  could  no  more  speak  than  if  he  had 
been  stricken  dumb  by  the  cold  frenzy  of  her 
eyes. 

"I've  not  much  time,"  she  said  ;  "  I  want  to 
get  back  to  him — to  my  dead!  oh,  my  God,  not 
mine — Marian's !  He  did  not  know  me — he  did 
not  know  me!" 

The  words  died  in  a  groan  ;  she  swayed  to  and 
fro  in  mortal  agony.  Pain  kept  Helen  Devereux 
and  Spencer  silent ;  a  vague,  unutterable  dread 
sealed  Alleyne's  lips.  The  spasm  passed ;  she 
was  speaking  again. 

"I  was  to  have  gone  with  him — my  love,  my 
love !  I  was  at  Fontainebleau ;  he  was  to  meet 


me  there.  I  wanted  to  wait ;  I  could  not !  I 
had  to  hurry  away — oh,  the  cowardliness  of  me ! 
oh,  my  love,  my  love !  Roland  brought  me  ;  I 
don't  remember  if  he  knew." 

She  stopped  for  a  second,  as  if  trying  to  collect 
her  thoughts,  then  cried,  angrily, 

"  What  do  you  all  look  at  me  so  for  ?  I  am 
not  ashamed !  Oh,  if  I  had  not  turned  back, 
may  be  the  rest  would  not  have  happened ;  he 
might  be  with  me ;  and  he's  gone — forever — for 
ever !" 

Once  more  she  paused ;  her  head  drooped ; 
they  could  hear  her  breathe  in  a  labored  and  ir 
regular  way ;  neither  had  any  strength  to  address 
her.  Again  she  went  on.  Still  she  addressed 
Alleyne,  still  she  looked  at  Helen  Devereux. 

"Gregory  Alleyne,"  she  said,  "let  her  tell 
Marian  he  was  all  hers  at  the  last — Marian,  al 
ways  Marian!"  There  came  a  wild  impatience 
into  her  voice  now.  "  She  kept  between  us ;  he 
never  knew  me — he  never  knew  me !  Let  her 
tell  Marian  that — Marian's  at  the  last.  It  is  no 
good  to  claim  what  was  not  mine.  I  have  noth 
ing  left — nothing!" 

Gregory  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  and  cover 
ed  his  face  with  his  hands.  Miss  Devereux  sob 
bed  like  a  child,  though  unconscious  that  she  was 
weeping. 

"What  is  that  Helen  Devereux  crying  for?" 
asked  Fanny,  in  the  same  tone  of  impatient  com 
plaint.  "  She  was  always  a  faint-hearted  thing, 
in  spite  of  her  pride.  Where's  Roland?" 

Spencer  came  forward,  dropped  on  his  knees 
by  her,  and  put  both  arms  about  her.  Through 
all  his  pain  and  suffering  on  her  account  he  had 
endured  nothing  like  this  :  to  see  her  humiliated 
in  the  eyes  of  that  man  whom  he  could  not  pity 
yet,  well  as  he  knew  the  wrong  was  on  Fanny's 
side. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  said,  "close  by  you;  you 
have  me  always — remember  that." 

Then  his  voice  choked,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
pause.  Fanny  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  dull 
wonder  rn  her  eyes,  but  did  not  attempt  to  free 
herself  from  his  embrace. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said;  "here — I  might  be 
sure  he  would  keep  by  me;  my  good  Roland. 
I  don't  care  what  you  and  she  think,  Gregory 
Alleyne ;  it  makes  no  difference ;  but  it's  hard 
to  tell  before  my  Roland,  for  there's  more — but 
he  ought  to  hear." 

"Not  to-night,  Fanny,"  groaned  Spencer; 
"not  to-night!" 

"Let  me  alone!"  she  cried,  with  tho  samo 
piteous  fretfulness  in  her  voice.  "I  want  to  go 
back  to  him  ;  I  haven't  kissed  him  even— I  did 
not  dare.  Oh,  my  love,  my  love!" 

' '  Come  away,  Fanny ;  come ! "  urged  Spencer. 

"  Be  still,  Roland !"  she  answered.  "  If  I  did 
not  tell,  the  very  dead  would  rise  to  do  it !  What 
was  it  more?  1  forget — I'm  stupid.  You  think 
I  am  mad,  Gregory  Alleyne ;  but  I  am  not  !  1  < 


188 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


she  daring  to  pity  me  ?  Oh,  I'll  not  bear  that ; 
I'll  not  bear  that! " 

Still  she  looked  at  Helen,  hut  never  once  ad 
dressed  her.  . 

"  I  don't  want  to  tell,  Gregory  Alleyne !  I'm 
not  repenting — you  need  not  think  it ;  don't  even 
dare  to  !  If  it  were  all  to  do  over,  I'd  do  it — I 
would !  I'm  glad ;  I'm  glad !  She  loved  you — 
that  Helen  Devereux  loved  you ;  ask  her,  if  you 
don't  believe  me;  look  at  her — she  can't  deny 
it!" 

Her  voice  came  in  broken  gasps,  sharp  and  dis 
cordant  ;  one  instant  her  eyes  blazed,  then  look 
ed  dead  again.  She  supported  herself  by  grasp 
ing  Roland's  shoulder  with  her  right  hand,  and 
clutching  the  arm  of  her  chair  in  the  other. 
Once  more  Roland  called  her  name  in  an  agony 
of  supplication,  but  she  went  on,  unheeding. 

•"  If  it  had  not  been  for  her  money,  I  might 
have  had  my  dream  longer !  She  lost  me  Tal- 
bot — it  was  her  doing.  She  would  not  take  him, 
after  all ;  she  gave  him  away  to  that  doll.  I 
never  hated  Marian ;  I  could  be  sorry  for  her 
this  minute  if  I  could  feel  any  thing ;  but  oh,  that 
Helen  Devereux !" 

Even  Roland  for  a  moment  turned  his  eyes 
away  from  the  madness  of  her  face ;  even  his 
courage  faltered.  A  pause  which  neither  of  her 
listeners  could  break,"  then  her  awful  voice  again. 

"  So  I  kept  your  letter  back,  Gregory  Alleyne ; 
that  was  long  before  I  knew  you,  I  think ;  but 
no  matter,  I  did  it.  I  wrote  the  letter  you  got 
from  that  Helen — I  did  it.  I  never  was  sorry — 
I  am  not  now  ;  I  didn't  hurt  her  half  enough — 
not  half;  she  stole  Talbot,  and  then  wouldn't 
have  him.  I'm  sorry  for  Roland,  but  for  nobody 
else.  I  wanted  his  esteem — I'm  very  fond  of 
Roland,  but  I've  lost  even  that  now." 

" Fanny !"  moaned  Spencer;  "Fanny!" 

She  did  not  hear ;  her  tones  rose  gradually  to 
a  dismal  wail. 

"  Well,  well,  it  does  not  matter  ;  nothing  mat 
ters  any  more  ;  Talbot  is  dead !  He  died  with 
Marian's  voice  in  his  ears — always  Marian's! 
He  prayed,  so  she  will  have  him  in  the  next 
world,  for  I  can't  pray ;  I  shall  be  alone  there 
too — all  alone." 

"Nobody  is  angry  —  nobody!"  cried  Miss 
Devereux,  through  her  sobs.  "  See — look  at  us 
— try  to  understand." 

"Oh,  that  Helen  Devereux!"  she  shivered. 
"I  never  would  have  forgiveness  —  I  will  not 
now!  Do  you  hear  me,  Gregory  Alleyne — do 
you  hear?"  she  added,  angrily.  "Tell  her  so — 
tell  her  so !" 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  head,  as  if  conscious 
that  her  mind  was  wandering,  and  trying  to 
steady  her  thoughts.  Roland  rose,  holding  her 
closer  in  his  arms,  again  praying  her  to  come 
away. 

"I  know  what  it  was,"  she  said,  pushing  him 
off.  "About  St.  Simon.  It  was  nearly  all  my 


scheme;  he  was  not  half  so  shrewd  as  I.  A 
good  scheme ;  it  looks  clumsy  because  it  failed, 
but  it  was  a  good  one.  And  now  he  has  that 
old  power  of  attorney  from  Helen  Devereux.  I 
kept  it — I  gave  it  to  him.  He  will  sell  her  lands 
and  her  stocks,  so  you  must  stop  that ;  I  wish  I 
need  not  tell !  Only  promise  to  1st  him  go :  I'll 
believe  you  if  you  promise,  Gregory  Alleyne." 

"He  does;  I  promise  for  him,"  exclaimed 
Helen. 

Fanny  moved  her  head  wearily  to  and  fro,  put 
up  her  hands  again,  as  if  the  sound  of  the  oth 
er's  voice  hurt  her  brain  through  all  its  numb 
ness. 

"Oh,  that  Helen  Devereux!"  she  sighed 
anew. 

"Every  thing  shall  be  arranged  as  you  could 
wish,"  Alleyne  said,  speaking  for  the  first  time: 
"you  may  trust  me." 

"Yes,  I  know;  you're  a  good  man  enough," 
she  muttered.  "Roland,  you  will  go  after  St. 
Simon.  I  have  the  address ;  you  can  find  him." 

"  I'll  go,  Fanny ;  I'll  go." 

She  looked  slowly  about,  apparently  trying  to 
recollect  if  there  was  any  thing  more  to  tell. 
Her  features  changed  and  worked  till  they  feared 
that  some  burst  of  utter  insanity  would  follow, 
but  gradually  the  frenzy  died  out  of  her  eyes, 
and  something  like  a  smile  softened  the  drawn 
mouth. 

"I  think  that  is  all,"  she  said.  "I'm  very 
tired.  I  want  to  go  back  to  Talbot ;  he  might 
miss  me,  though  he  is  dead.  Let  me  go  back." 

She  moved  toward  the  door ;  even  Roland  did 
not  follow ;  he  felt  that  the  sole  hope  of  pre 
serving  her  troubled  reason  was  to  leave  her  to 
herself.  She  passed  out  of  the  room.  They 
heard  her  enter  the  chamber  where  the  dead  man 
lay ;  no  one  intruded  on  her  any  more.  And  as 
she  went,  Helen  Devereux  and  Alleyne  knew 
that  they  had  seen  her  face  for  the  last  time  in 
this  world. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

AFTER   TWO   TEARS. 

MORE  than  two  years  had  elapsed  since  the 
events  recorded  in  the  preceding  chapter. 

It  is  late  in  the  autumn  again.  Gregory  Al 
leyne  and  his  wife  have  come  over  from  America, 
and  are  visiting  Lady  Castlemaine.  Marian  lives 
in  the  picturesque  old  cottage  where  so  much  of 
her  peaceful  girlhood  was  spent.  Mrs.  Payne  is 
still  with  her,  and  the  two  lead  a  quiet  existence, 
whose  monotony  is  as  welcome  and  soothing  to 
Marian  as  if  she  had  attained  the  years  of  her 
relative,  still  in  the  bloom  of  youth  though  she  is. 

Lady  Castlemaine's  jointure  is  a  very  comfort 
able  one ;  to  her  modest  tastes  it  seems  great 
wealth.  The  baronetcy  had  passed  into  the  keep 
ing  of  another  branch  of  the  family ;  the  claimant 


ST.  SIMON'S  NIECE. 


189 


is  only  a  mere  child.  Let  us  hope  that  wise 
guardians  may  be  able  to  train  the  developing 
mind  into  a  career  far  different  from  that- of  poor 
Talbot. 

It  was  Helen  Devereux  herself  who  carried  to 
Marian  the  news  of  her  husband's  death.  The 
tender  soul  was  borne  down  for  a  time  by  the 
shock ;  yet  even  at  first  it  was  evident  to  her 
friend  that  Marian  was  prepared  for  some  still 
more  terrible  blow.  At  least  Miss  Devereux 
could  tell  of  a  peaceful  death -bed — of  broken 
prayers — loving  repetitions  of  Marian's  name — 
a  belief  up  to  the  last  that  Marian  was  beside 
him. 

Helen  Devereux  and  Alleyne  were  married  the 
following  spring.  It  was  a  very  quiet  wedding, 
and  they  sailed  almost  immediately  for  America. 
Some  affairs  of  Alleyne  have  brought  them  again 
to  Europe,  and  at  the  first  leisure  moment  they 
invaded  Marian's  seclusion. 

They  are  two  very  happy  people.  Of  course, 
these  are  rather  early  times ;  but  I  think  the  sun 
shine  which  gladdens  their  hearts  will  be  lasting. 
Each  has  learned  patience  and  faith  by  a  disci 
pline  too  hard  to  be  forgotten. 

The  soft  November  days  pass  pleasantly 
enough  to  them  all.  Marian  is  happy  in  the 
sight  of  her  friend's  happiness  —  cheerful  and 
hopeful  always.  She  is  more  lovely  than  ever ; 
the  bloom  and  radiance  of  girlhood  are  gone, 
but  she  has  gained  a  higher  beauty  which  often 
makes  Helen  marvel ;  there  is  so  little  trace  of 
earthliness  in  it  that  she  feels  almost  as  if  stand 
ing  face  to  face  with  the  unveiled  soul. 

Alleyne  and  his  wife  are  sitting  on  the  veran 
da  at  the  close  of  a  beautiful  day.  As  they  look 
across  the  shrubberies  they  can  see  Marian  and 
lloland  Spencer  walking  about  the  garden,  where 
the  flowers  still  linger  under  the  soft  Devonshire 
skies. 

Roland  arrived  only  last  night.  These  two 
years  have  greatly  changed  him ;  there  is  no 
trace  of  the  boy  left ;  he  looks  rather  old  for 
his  age;  but  he  is  the  same  generous,  true- 
hearted  Roland  as  ever,  and  he  retains  that 
dash  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm  which  will  cling 
to  him  always,  and  keep  him  different  from  most 
men  in  this  prosaic  century. 

Spencer  brought  them  news  of  Fanny  St.  Si 
mon,  whom  he  has  lately  seen.  Fanny  was  very 
ill  for  a  long  time  after  the  horrible  catastrophe 
which  overwhelmed  the  last  of  her  erring  youth. 
During  many  weeks,  even  beyond  her  recovery, 


the  past  was  almost  a  blank  to  her.  When  mem 
ory  and  strength  did  come  back,  it  was  as  if  she 
had  been  dead  and  buried,  and  her  soul  had  be 
gun  a  new  existence  in  another  world. 

She  lives  in  the  South  of  France ;  the  Tortoise 
and  Antoinette  are  with  her.  Not  long  after  her 
illness  a  large  fortune  was  left  Fanny  by  some 
relative  in  California  whom  she  had  scarcely 
thought  of  for  years.  The  greater  portion  of 
that  wealth  was  employed  to  make  good  the 
losses  St.  Simon's  dishonesty  had  caused  in 
nocent  people.  St.  Simon  could  return  to  Eu 
rope,  if  he  chose,  without  fear,  but  he  prefers  to 
remain  in  Brazil. 

"She  is  very  cheerful,  very  well,"  Roland  said 
when  he  had  ended  his  narrative.  "Not  like 
the  Fanny  we  knew ;  I  could  scarcely  feel  that 
it  was  the  same  woman ;  but  ah,  a  noble  creature! 
She  showed  me  how  gray  her  hair  had  grown. 
She  does  so  much  good ;  she  is  a  providence  to 
all  the  needy  near  her.  But  she  would  not  let 
me  praise  her ;  she  says  it  is  only  to  make  time 
pass;  that  she  deserves  no  credit." 

When  Marian  was  out  of  hearing,  Roland 
added, 

"Her  villa  looks  out  over  the  sea;  she  told 
me  that  she  could  never  visit  Italy  again,  but 
she  likes  to  look  across  the  bright  sweep  of  waves 
that  roll  between  her  and  it,  and  think  of  the 
time  when  she  may  cross  brighter  waters  into  a 
more  beautiful  land ;  for  the  old  hardness  and 
unbelief  are  gone  forever." 

"Poor  Fanny!"  murmured  Helen. 

"Happy  Fanny!"  Roland  answered,  smiling, 
though  his  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  he  did  not 
seek  to  hide.  "The  waiting  and  suspense  will 
end.  God's  mercy  is  infinite  ;  she  will  find  her 
happiness  beyond ;  she  will  find  the  love  she 
yearned  for  here  purified  into  something  worthy 
of  heaven." 

And  Roland  rose  and  walked  away.  Fanny 
St.  Simon's  name  will  not  be  any  more  men 
tioned  between  them,  but  they  will  not  forget 
her ;  they  will  be  glad  to  think  of  her,  patient, 
purified,  doing  faithfully  whatever  her  hand  finds 
to  do,  looking  hopefully  out  across  the  radinnt 
waters  toward  the  unseen  clime  where  expiation 
and  atonement  end  and  the  golden  fruition  be 
gins. 

Helen  and  Alleyne  know  Roland  carries  a  sore 
heart  still,  but  they  believe  that  he  and  Marian 
will  yet  find  happiness  and  a  new  life  together : 
I  believe  so  too. 


THE  END. 


GEORGE  ELIOT'S  NOVELS. 

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London  Review. 

It  was  once  said  of  a  very  charming  and  high- 
minded  woman  that  to  know  her  was  in  itself  a 
liberal  education  ;  and  we  are  inclined  to  set  an 
almost  equally  high  value  on  an  acquaintance 
with  the  writings  of  "George  Eliot."  For  those 
who  read  them  aright  they  possess  the  faculty 
of  educating  in  its  highest  sense,  of  invigorating 
the  intellect,  giving  a  healthy  tone  to  the  taste, 
appealing  to  the  nobler  feelings  of  the  heart, 
training  its  impulses  aright,  and  awakening  or 
developing  in  every  mind  the  consciousness  of 
a  craving  for  something  higher  than  the  pleas 
ures  and  rewards  of  that  life  which  only  the 
senses  realize,  the  belief  in  a  destiny  of  a  nobler 
nature  than  can  be  grasped  by  experience  or 
demonstrated  by  argument.  In  reading  them, 
we  seem  to  be  raised  above  the  low  grounds 
where  the  atmosphere  is  heavy  and  tainted,  and 
the  sunlight  has  to  struggle  through  blinding 
veils  of  mist,  and  to  be  set  upon  the  higher 
ranges  where  the  air  is  fresh  and  bracing,  where 
the  sky  is  bright  and  clear,  and  where  earth  seems 
of  less  account  than  before  and  heaven  more 
near  at  home.  And  as,  by  those  who  really  feel 
the  grandeur  of  mountain  solitudes,  a  voice  is 
heard  speaking  to  the  heart,  which  hushes  the 
whispers  in  which  vanity,  and  meanness,  and 
self-  interest  are  wont  to  make  their  petty  sug 
gestions,  and  as  for  them  the  paltry  purposes  of 
a  brief  and  fitful  life  lose  their  significance  in  the 
presence  of  the  mighty  types  of  steadfastness  and 
eternity  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  so,  on 
those  readers  who  are  able  to  appreciate  a  lofty 
independence  of  thought,  a  rare  nobility  of  feel 
ing,  and  an  exquisite  sympathy  with  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  human  nature,  "  George  Eliot's " 
writings  can  not  fail  to  exert  an  invigorating  and 
purifying  influence,  the  good  effects  of  which 
leave  behind  it  a  lasting  impression. 
Boston  Transcript. 

Few  women — no  living  woman  indeed — have 
so  much  strength  as  "  George  Eliot,"  and,  more 


than  that,  she  never  allows  it  to  degenerate  into 
coarseness.  With  all  her  so-called  "masculine" 
vigor,  she  has  a  feminine  tenderness,  which  is 
nowhere  shown  more  plainly  than  in  her  de 
scriptions  of  children. 

Saturday  Review. 

She  looks  out  upon  the  world  with  the  most 
entire  enjoyment  of  all  the  good  that  there  is  in 
it  to  enjoy,  and  an  enlarged  compassion  for  all 
the  ill  that  there  is  in  it  to  pity.  But  she  never 
either  whimpers  over  the  sorrowful  lot  of  man, 
or  snarls  and  chuckles  over  his  follies  and  little 
nesses  and  impotence. 

Macmillarfs  Magazine. 
In  "  George  Eliot's  "  books  the  effect  is  pro 
duced  by  the  most  delicate  strokes  and  the  nicest 
proportions.  In  her  pictures  men  and  women 
fill  the  foreground,  while  thin  lines  and  faint  color 
show  us  the  portentous  clouds  of  fortune  or  cir 
cumstance  looming  in  the  dim  distance  behind 
them  and  over  their  heads.  She  does  not  paint 
the  world  as  a  huge  mountain,\vith  pigmies  crawl 
ing  or  scrambling  up  its  rugged  sides  to  inac 
cessible  peaks,  and  only  tearing  their  flesh  more 
or  less  for  their  pains.  *  *  *  Each  and  all  of 
"George  Eliot's"  novels  abound  in  reflections 
that  beckon  on  the  alert  reader  into  pleasant 
paths  and  fruitful  fields  of  thought 

Spectator. 

"George  Eliot"  has  Sir  Walter  Scott's  art 
for  revivifying  the  past.  You  plunge  into  it  with 
as  headlong  an  interest  as  into  the  present.  For 
this  she  compensates  by  a  wider  and  deeper  in 
tellectual  grasp. 

Examiner. 

"George  Eliot's"  novels  belong  to  the  endur 
ing  literature  of  our  country — durable,  not  for 
the  fashionableness  of  its  pattern,  but  for  the 
texture  of  its  stuff. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &:  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


HARPEP.  S:  BROTHERS  will  send  cither  cf  tJie  above  toekt  ly  mail,  fostaft  fre^aM,  t«  ax?  fieri  cf  t.'# 
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CHOICE    SUMMER    BOOKS 

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receipt  of  Ten  Cents. 


Drake's  Nooks  and  Corners  of  the  New  England  Coast. 

Nooks  and  Corners  of  the  New  England  Coast.  By  SAMUEL  ADAMS  DRAKE,  Author  of 
"Old  Landmarks  of  Boston,"  "Historic  Fields  and  Mansions  of  Middlesex,"  &c.  With 
numerous  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 


"  This  is  a  very  agreeable  book,  founded  on  personal 
exploration  of  some  of  the  most  interesting  localities 
in  New  England,  with  a  rich  show  of  legend,  personal 
anecdotes  and  reminiscences,  and  historical  notices, 
as  well  as  description  sketches.  The  places  visited 
by  the  author  in  pursuit  of  materials  for  his  work 


are  the  interior  of  Maine,  the  vicinity  of  Portsmouth, 
Marblehead,  Plymouth,  Nautucket,  and  other  famous 
landmarks  in  the  history  of  New  England.  The  pict 
ures  of  Yankee  society  and  character  are  drawn  to 
the  life,  and  are  admirable  specimens  of  that  kind  of 
composition." 


Curtis's  JLotns-lEating. 

Lotus-Eating.    A  Summer  Book.    By  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS,  Author  of  "Nile  Notes 
of  a  Hovvadji,"  "Trumps,"  &c.,  &c.     Illustrated.     I2mo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

ed  in  its  pages ;  its  reflections  are  always  suggestive ; 
its  narratives  never  pall  upon  the  taste ;  its  brilliant 
word-painting  is  relieved  by  an  under-current  of  gen 
uine  feeling;  and  its  fresh  and  glowing  descriptions 
give  a  new  charm  to  familiar  objects." 


"This  delightful  volume  is  a  record  of  summer  ram 
bles,  touching  gracefully  on  many  of  the  most  inter 
esting  spots  in  American  scenery,  and  giving  a  series 
of  lively  pictures  of  the  celebrated  places  of  fashion 
able  resort.  Humor,  pathos,  and  sentiment  are  blend- 

Prime's  Under  the  Trees. 

Under  the  Trees.    By  SAMUEL  IREN^US 

It  is  alive  with  all  gracious  humanities,  overflowing 
with  the  broadest  sympathies,  attentive  to  the  mystic 
whisperings  of  Nature,  and  finding  a  secret  evangel  in 
every  blossom  of  the  spring,  iu  every  autumnal  leaf, 
and  in  the  song  of  earliest  birds.  Many  of  its  idyllic 
descriptions  have  a  touch  of  the  sweetness  and  pathos 
of  Cowper.  *  *  *  The  volume  also  contains  numerous 

Prime's  I  go  a-Fishing. 

I  go  a- Fishing.  By  WILLIAM  C.  PRIME. 
An  admirable  piece  of  literary  mosaic.  It  abounds 
in  fresh  descriptions  of  nature  as  breezy  and  fragrant 
as  the  spicy  woodlands  in  which  they  had  their  birth. 
The  author  has  brought  to  its  composition  a  rare  fa 
miliarity  with  the  daintiest  products  of  literature  and 
art,  a  passion  for  curious  and  out-of-the-way  knowl 
edge,  extensive  and  observant  travel  in  regions  re- 


PRIME,  D.D.    Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  oo. 

pleasant  reminiscences  of  European  travel,  of  which 
few  Americans  have  had  a  wider  experience  than  the 
author,  and  certainly  none  have  accomplished  the 
wearisome  round  of  sight-seeing  with  more  buoyant 
spirits  or  more  intelligent  observation.  His  impres 
sions  are  always  fresh,  and  impart  a  perpetual  interest 
to  the  perusal  of  his  pages. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 


Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

mote  from  the  beaten  track,  and  a  heartfelt  love  of 
Nature  in  her  hidden  ways  and  sylvan  retreats  which 
transmutes  all  rural  sports  into  the  delights  of  poetry. 
— N.  Y.  Tribune. 

It  is  a  volume  that  will  outlive  the  summer,  and  many 
summers,  and  be  as  fresh  and  pleasant  and  suggestive 
by  the  fire-side  as  by  the  brook-side.— Boston  Journal. 


Carleton's  Farm  Ballads. 

Farm  Ballads.     By  WILL  CARLETON.     Handsomely  Illustrated.     Square  Svo,  Ornamental 

Cloth,  $2  co ;  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 
Will  Carleton's  ballads  deal  with  simple  country 
folk,  in  simple  and  homely  style ;  but  of  their  kind 
they  are  genuine  transcripts  of  nature,  admirable  genre 
pictures  from  life.  "Betsey  and  I  are  Out,"  "Over 
the  Hills  to  the  Poor-house,"  "Out  of  the  old  House, 
Naucy,"  and  "  Gone  with  a  handsomer  Man,"  are  per 


haps  the  most  striking  of  the  series,  both  as  regards 
the  selection  and  the  treatment  of  the  themes ;  but 
all  of  them  exhibit  an  originality  of  conception  and 
power  of  execution  which  entitle  the  author  to  claim 
rank  as  a  master  in  this  field  of  poetic  literature.— 
Evening  Post,  N.  Y. 


Scott's  Fishing  in  American  Waters. 

Fishing  in  American  Waters.  By  GENIO  C.  SCOTT.  A  New  Edition,  containing  Parts  Six 
and  Seven,  on  Southern  and  Miscellaneous  Fishes.  With  over  200  Illustrations.  Crown 
Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 


Contains  a  vast  amount  of  information  concerning 
the  sea  and  fresh- water  fishes  of  our  American  waters, 
the  various  methods  of  capturing  them,  the  tackle  to 


be  employed,  etc.  This  book,  like  the  author  of  it,  is 
eminently  practical,  and  every  angler  ought  to  have 
it. — Spirit  of  the  Times. 


Gail  Hamilton's  Twelve  Males  from  a  I^emon. 

Twelve  Miles  from  a  Lemon  :  Social  and  Domestic  Sketches.     By  GAIL  HAMILTON,  Author 
of  "Woman's  Worth  and  Worthlessness,"  "Little  Folk  Life,"  &c.     I2mo,  Cloth,  f  i  50. 


Novels  are  sweets.  All  people  with  healthy  liternry  appetites  love  them — almost  all  women;  a 
vast  number  of  clever,  bard-headed  men.  Judges,  bishops,  chancellors,  mathematicians,  are  notorious 
novel  readers,  as  well  as  young  boys  and  sweet  girls,  and  their  kind,  tender  mothers. — THACKERAY. 

Harper's  Select  Library  of  Fiction  rarely  includes  a  work  which  has  not  a  decided  charm,  either 
from  the  clearness  of  the  story,  the  significance  of  the  theme,  or  the  charm  of  the  execution  ;  so  that  on 
setting  out  upon  a  journey,  or  providing  for  the  recreation  of  a  solitary  evening,  one  is  wise  and  safe  in 
procuring  the  later  numbers  of  this  attractive  series. — Boston  Transcript. 


A  COMPLETE  LIST  OF  NOVELS 

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York, 


or  full  titles  and  description,  see  HARPER'S  CATALOGUE,  w7iich  will  be  sent  by  mail 
on  receipt  of  ten  cents. 

The  Novels  in  this  List,  except  where  otherwise  designated,  are  in  Octavo,  pamphlet  form.    The 
Duodecimo  Novels  are  bound  in  Cloth,  unless  otherwise  specified. 


AGUILAR'S  Home  Influence 12mo$l  00 

The  Mother's  Recompense 75 

AINSWORTH'S  Crichton 12mo  1  50 

ALAMANCE 50 

ANDERSEN'S  (Hans  Christian)  The  Impro- 

visatore 50 

Only  a  Fiddler  and  O.T 50 

ANNE  Furness 75 

BACHELOR  of  the  Albany 12mo  1  50 

BAKER'S  The  New  Timothy l'2mo  1  50 

Inside:  a  Chronicle  of  Secession.     Ills..  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

BANIM'S  The  Smuggler 12mo  1  50 

BELIAL 50 

BELL'S  (M  iss)  Julia  Howard 50 

BENEATH  the  Wheels 50 

BENEDICT'S  John  Worthington's  Name...  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Miss  Dorothy's  Charge 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Miss  Van  Kortland 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Mr.  Vaughan's  Heir '  1  00 

My  Daughter  Elinor 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
St.  Simon's  Niece.     (Jn  Press.") 

BLACK'S  A  Daughter  of  Heth 50 

A  Princess  of  Thule 75 

Cloth  1  25 

In  Silk  Attire......... 50 

Kilmcny 60 

Love  or  Marriage  ? 50 

The  Maid  of  Killeena,  and  Other  Stories.  50 
The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane.  Ill's.  50 
The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton.  75 

Three  Feathers.      Illustrated 100 

Cloth  1  50 

BLACKMORE'S  Cradock  Nowell 75 

The  Maid  of  Sker. 75 

Alice  Lorraine 7o 

Lorna  Doone 75 

BLACKWELL'S    (Mrs.  A.  B.)   The    Island 

Neighbors.     Illustrated 75 

BORROWS  Lavengro 75 


BORROWS  Romany  Rye $    75 

BRADDON'S  (Miss)  Aurora  Floyd 75 

A  Strange  World 75 

Birds  of  Prey.     Illustrated 75 

Bound  to  John  Company.     Illustrated.      75 

Charlotte's  Inheritance 50 

Dead  Sea  Fruit.     Illustrations 50 

Eleanor's  Victory 75 

Fenton's  Quest.     Illustrated 60 

John  Marchmont's  Legacy 75 

Lost  for  Love.     Illustrated 75 

Publicans  and  Sinners 75 

Strangers  and  Pilgrims.      Illustrated.      75 

Taken  at  the  Flood 75 

The  Levels  of  Arden.     Illustrated 75 

To  the  Bitter  End.    Illustrated 75 

BREACH  of  Promise 50 

BREMER'S  (Miss)  Brothers  and  Sisters 60 

New  Sketches  of  E very-Day  Life 60 

Nina 60 

The  H.  Family 60 

The  Home 60 

The  Midnight  Sun 25 

The  Neighboro 60 

The  Parsonage  of  Mora 25 

The  President's  Daughters 25 

BRONTE'S  (Charlotte)  Jane  Eyre 75 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  60 

Shirley 1  00 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  50 

Villctts 75 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  60 

The  Professor.     Illustrated 12mo  1  60 

(Anna)  Tho   Tenant  of  \Vildfdl  Ibll. 

Illnstr.-itril.     I'-'iuo  1  50 
(Emily)  Wuthcring Heights.  Illustrated. 

12mo  1  50 

BROOKS'S  Sooner  or  Later.    Illustrated....  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

The  Gordian  Knot 50 

The  Silver  Cord.     Illustrated 150 

Cloth  2  00 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  <5^  Brothers. 


BROUGHAM'S  Albert  Lunel 

BRUNTON'S  (Mary)  Self  ^Control . 
BULWER'S  Alice 

A  Strange  Story.     Illustrated. 


1 

12mo  1 

Devereux 

Ernest  Maltravers 

Eugene  Aram 

Godolphin 

12mo  1 

Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings 1 

Kenelm  dulling! v 

12mo  1 

Leila 

12mo  1 

Lucretia 

Mv  Novel 1 

2  vols.  12mo  2 

Night  and  Morning 

Paul  Clifford 

Pelham 

Rienzi 

The  Caxtons 

12mo  1 

The  Disowned 

The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii 

The  Last  of  the  Barons 1 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine 

The  Parisians.     Illustrated 1 

12mo  1 

What  will  He  do  \vith  it? 1 

Cloth  2 

Zanoni 

BULWER'S    (Robert— "Owen    Meredith") 

The  Ring  of  Amasis 12irio  1 

BURBURY'S  (Mrs.)  Florence  Sackville 

BURNEY'S  (Miss)  Evelina 12mo  1 

CAMPBELL'S  (Miss)  Self-Devotion 

CAPRON'S  (Miss)  Helen  Lincoln 12mo  1 

CARLEN'S  (Miss)  Ivar;  or.  The  Skjuts-Boy. 

The  Brothers'  Bet 

The  Lover's  Stratagem 

CASTE.    Bv  the  Author  of  "  Colonel  Dacre." 

CASTLETON'S  Salem 12uio  1 

CHARLES  Auchester 

CHURCH'S  (Mrs.  Ross)  Her  Lord  and  Mas 
ter 

The  Prey  of  the  Gods 

CITIZEN  of" Prague 1 

CLARKE'S  The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son. 
COLLINS'S  (Mortimer)  The  Vivian  Romance. 
COLLINS'S  (Wilkie)  Armadale.  Illustrated.  1 

Antonina. 

Man  and  Wife.     Illustrated 1 

No  Name.     Illustrated 1 

Poor  Miss  Finch.    Illustrated 1 

The  Law  and  the  Lady.    Illustrated — 

The  Moonstone.     Illustrated 1 

The  New  Magdalen 

The  Woman  in  White.     Illustrated 1 

COLLINS'S    (Wilkie)    Illustrated   Library 

Edition 12mo,  per  vol.   1 


Antonina. 
Armadale. 
Basil. 

Hide-and-Srek. 
Man  and  Wife. 
No  Name. 
After  Dark,  and 
Other  Stories. 


Poor  Miss  Finch. 
The  Dead  Secret. 
The  Moonstone. 
The  New  Magdalen. 
The  Woman  in  White. 
My  Miscellanies. 
Queen  of  Hearts. 
The  Law  and  the  Ladv, 


COLONEL  Dacre.  By  the  Author  of  "Caste."      50 


CONSTANCE  Lyndsay $    50 

COOKE'S  Henry  St.  John 12mo  1  50 

Leathar  Stocking  and  Silk 12mo  1  50 

CORNWALLIS'S  Pilgrims  of  Fashion.  12mo  1  00 
CRAIK'S  (Mrs.  D.  M.).     See  Miss  Mulock. 

(Miss  G.  M.)  Mildred £0 

Svlviu's  Choice 50 

CUNNINGHAM'S  Lord  Roldan 1  50 

CURTIS'S  Trumps.     Illustrated 12mo  200 

D'ARBOUVILLE'S  Tales 12mo  1  50 

DTSRAELI'S  The  Young  Duke 12mo  1  50 

D'ORSAY'S  (Countess)  Clouded  Happiness.       50 

DANGEROUS  Guest,  A 50 

DE  BEAUVOIR'S  Safia 50 

DE  FOREST'S  Miss  Ravenel's  Conversion 

from  Secession  to  Loyalty 12mo  1  50 

Playing  the  Mischief. 75 

DE  MILLE'S  Cord  and  Creese.     Illustrated.       75 

Cloth    1  25 

The  American  Baron.     Illustrated.....    100 

Cloth   1  50 

The  Cryptogram.    Illustrated 1  50 

Cloth   2  00 

The  Dodge  Club.    Illustrated 75 

Cloth   1  25 

The  Living  Link.  Illustrated 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

DE  VIGNY'S  Cinq  Mars 50 

DEN  I  SON'S  (Mrs.)  Home  Pictures....  T-'mo  1  50 
DICKENS'S  Novels.     Illustrated. 

Oliver  Twist 50 

Cloth  1  00 

Martin  Chuzzlewit 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

The  Old  Curiosity  Shop 75 

Cloth   1  25 

David  Copperfield 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Dombey  and  Son 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
Nicholas  Nickleby 1  00 


Cloth 


Bleak  House. 


Pickwick  Papers. 


Little  Dorrit. 


Barnaby  Rudgc. 


1 
1 

Cloth  1 

1 

1 
1 
1 

1 

Cloth  1 


Cloth 


Cloth 


A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


Cloth 


Our  Mutual  Friend. 


1 

1 

Cloth  1 


Great  Expectations.     (Jn  Press.") 
Christmas  Stories.     (In  Press.") 

Bleak  House.    Illustrated.  .2  vols.,12mo  3  00 

Hard  Times 50 

12mo  1  25 

Mrs.  Lirriper's  Legacy 10 

The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood. .  Ill's ....       25 

DRAYTON"....! i2mo  1 50 

DRURY'S  (Miss  A.  H.)  Eastbury 12mo  1  50 

Misrepresentation 1  00 

DUMAS'S  (Alex.)  Amaury 50 

Ascanio 75 

Chevalier  d'Harmental 50 

DUPUY'S  (Miss  E.  A.)  Country  Neighborhood  50 
The  Huguenot  Exiles 12mo  1  25 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  6-  Brothers. 


EDGEWORTH'S  (Miss)  Novels.     Engrav 
ings 10  vols.,  12mo,  per  vol.$l  50 

Vol.  I.  Castle  Kackrent;  Essav  on 
Irish  Bulls ;  Essay  on  Self-Justification ; 
The  Prussian  Vase ;  The  Good  Aunt. 
Vol.  II.  Angelina;  ThcGoodFrench 
Governess;  MademoisellePanache;  The 
Knapsack;  Lame  Jcrvis  ;  The  Will ; 
Out  of  Debt,  Out  of  Danger;  The  Lim 
erick  Gloves ;  The  Lottery ;  Rosanna. 
Vol.  III.  Murad  the  Unlucky ;  The 
Manufacturers ;  Ennui ;  The  Con 
trast;  The  Grateful  Negro;  To-mor 
row  ;  The  Dun. 

Vol.  IV.    Manoeuvring;    Almeria; 
Vivian. 

Vol.  V.  The  Absentee ;  Madame  de 
Floury ;    Emily  de   Boulanges ;    The 
Modern  Griselda.      [Vol.  VI. Belinda. 
Vol.  VII.  Leonora ;  Letters  on  Fe 
male  Education ;  Patronage. 

Vol.  VI 1 1. Patronage;  Comic  Dramas. 
Vol.  IX.  Harrington;  Thoughts  on 
Bores ;  Ormond.         [Vol.  X.  Helen. 

Frank 2  vols.  18mo  1  50 

Harry  and  Lucy 2  vols.  18mo  3  00 

Moral  Tales  . . ." 2  vols.  18mo  1  50 

Popular  Tales ...  2  vols.  18mo  1  50 

Rosamond 12mo   1  50 

EDWARDS'S  (Amelia  B.)  Barbara's  History.       75 

Debenham's  Vow.    Illustrated 75 

Half  a  Million  of  Money 75 

Hand  and  Glove 50 

Miss  Carew 50 

My  Brother's  Wife 50 

The  Ladder  of  Life 50 

(M.B.)  Kitty 50 

EILOAR T'S  (Mrs.)  Curate's  Discipline 50 

From  Thistles — Grapes  ? 50 

The  Love  that  Lived 50 

ELIOT'S  (George)  Novels. 

Adam  Bede.     Illustrated 1  .'mo  1  00 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical 75 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  00 

Middleware1.! 1  50 

Cloth  2  00 
2  vols.  12mo  3  50 

Romola.     Illustrated 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  and  Silas  Marner. 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  00 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss 75 

Illustrated.    12mo  1  00 

ELLIS'S  (Mrs.)  Home 12mo  1  50 

Look  to  the  End 50 

Chapters  on  Wives 12mo  1  50 

ESTELLE  Russell 75 

FALKENBURG 75 

FARJEON'S  Blade-o'-Grass.      Illustrations.      35 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Silver  Flagon 40 

Bread-and-Cheese  and  Kisses.     111'?. ...       35 

Golden  Grain.     Illustrated 35 

Grif 40 

Cloth      90 

Jessie  Trim 50 

Joshua  Marvel 40 

Cloth      90 

London's  Heart.     Illustrated 100 

Cloth  1  50 

Love's  Victory 55 

Ths  King  of 'No-Land.     Illustrated....       25 


FEMALE  Minister,  The $    50 

FENN'S  Ship  ALoy  !     Illustrated '..       40 

The  Treasure  Hunters.*. 40 

TERRIER'S  (Miss)  Marriage '.'.'.'       50 

FIELDING'S  Amelia I2mo  1  50 

Tom  Jones 2  vols,  12 mo  2  75 

?1RST  Friendship,  A. 50 

FIVE  Hundred  Pounds  Reward 50 

FLAGG'S  A  Good  Investment.     Illustrated.      60 

FRANCILLON'S  The  Earl's  Deue 50 

FREYTAG'S  Debit  and  Credit 12mo  1  50 

FULLOM'S  Dau-htor  of  Ni-ht 50 

GARIBALDI'S  Rule  of  the  Monk.   . .  60 

GASKELL'S  (Mrs.)  Cranford 12mo  1  25 

Dark  Night's  \Vork,  A 60 

Mary  Barton 50 

Moorland  Cottage ISsno      75 

My  Lady  Ludlow 25 

North  and  South 50 

Right  at  Last,  &c 12mo  1  50 

Sylvia's  Lovers 75 

Cousin  Phillis 25 

Wives  an J  Daughter?.     Illustrations. . .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

GIBBON'S  For  Lac'.c  of  Gold 60 

For  tha  King 60 

In  Honor  Bound 50 

Robin  Gray 60 

GILBERT  Rugge 1  00 

GODDARD'S  (Julia)  Baffled 75 

GODWIN'S  Caleb  Williams IGmo,  Paper      37 

Cloth  1  00 
GOLDSMITH'S  Vicar  of  Wakefiold.l8mo,Cloth    75 

GOLD  Worshipers 50 

GORE'S  (Mrs.)  Peers  and  Parvenus 50 

The  Banker's  Wife 60 

The  Birthright 25 

The  Queen  of  Denmark 50 

The  Roval  Favorite 50 

GRATTAN'S  Chance  Light  Medley 50 

GREEN  Hand,  The ." 75 

GREENWOOD'S  True  History  of  a  Little 

Ragamuffin 50 

GREY'S  (Mrs.)  The  Bosom  Friend 50 

The  Gambler's  Wife 50 

The  Young  Husband 50 

GWYNNF/S  The  School  for  Fathers...  12mo  1  25 

HAKLANDER'S  Clara 12mo  1  50 

HALL'S  (Mrs.  S.  C.)  Midsummer  Eve 50 

Tales  of  Woman's  Trials 75 

The  Whiteboy. 50 

HAMILTON'S  Cyril  Thornton 12mo  1  60 

HAMLET'S  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 60 

HANN AY'S  (D.)  Ned  Allen 60 

(J.)  Singleton  Fontcnoy 60 

HARDY'S  (Udv)  Daisy  NIehol 60 

II  AVKRS'S  (Do'ro)  Jack's  Sister 75 

II  AY'S  (Marv  Cecil)  Old  Myddelton's  Money.      60 

HEIR  Expectant,  The....! 50 

HIDDEN  Sin, The 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

HOEY'S  (Mrs.)  A  Golden  Sorrow 50 

The  Blossoming  of  an  Aloe 50 

HOFLAND'S  (Mrs.)  Daniel  Denniscm 

The  Czarina  TM 

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A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  6°  Brothers. 


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1  25 


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A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  6-  brothers. 


MABEL'S  Progress ! 

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1-Jir.o  1  50 

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Illustrations .". 12mo  1  55 

Motherless.     Translated.     Ill's.. ,.12mo  1  50 
Unkind  Word  and  Other  Stories. ..12mo  1  50 

Two  Marriages 12mo  1  50 

MURRAY'S  The  Prairie  Bird 1  00 

MY  Husband's  Crime.     Illustrated 75 

MY  Uncle  the  Curate 50 

NABOB  at  Home,  The • 50 

NATURE'S  Nobleman 60 

NEALE'S  The  Lost  Ship 75 

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Cloth  1  75 

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For  Love  and  Life 75 

Innocent.     Illustrated 75 

John:    a  Love  Story 60 

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Ombra 75 

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The  Minister's  Wife 75 

PAYN'S  (Jas.)  At  Her  Mercy 60 

A  Woman's  Vengeance 60 

Best  of  Husbands 60 

Beggar  on  Horseback 85 

Bred  in  the  Bone 50 

Carlyon's  Year , 25 

Cecil'*  Tryst 

Found  Dead 50 

Gwendoline's  Harvest 25 

Murphy's  Master 25 

One  of  the  Family 25 

Walter's  Word M 

Won— Not  Wooed 50 

PICKERINGS  (Miss)  The  Grandfather 

The  Grumbler W 

POINT  of  Honor,  A 60 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  cv  Brothers. 


POLLARD'S  (Eliza  F.)  Hope  Deferred 8     50 

The  Lady  Superior 50 

PONSONBY'S  (Lady)  Discipline  of  Life. ...       50 

Mary  Lindsay 50 

Pride  and  Irresolution 50 

PROFESSOR'S  Lady 25 

RACHEL'S  Secret 75 

RAYMOND'S  Heroine 50 

READE'S  (Charles)  Hard  Cash.    Ill's 50 

Cloth  1  00 

A  Simpleton 50 

Cloth  1  00 

Griffith  Gaunt.     Illustrations 25 

It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend 50 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long 50 

12mo  1  00 

Foul  Play 25 

White  Lies 50 

Peg  Woffington  and  Other  Tales 50 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.  Illustrations.       75 

Cloth  1  25 
12mo  1  00 

A  Terrible  Temptation.     Illustrated....       50 

12mo       75 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth 50 

The  Wandering  II cir.     Illustrations....       25 

Cloth       GO 
RECOLLECTIONS  of  Eton.    Illustrated....       50 

REGENTS  Daughter 50 

RIDDELL'S  (Mrs.  J.  H.)  Maxwell  Drewitt.       75 

Phemie  Keller , 50 

Race  for  Wealth 75 

A  Life's  Assize 50 

ROBINSON'S  (F.  W.)  For  Her  Sake.     Ill's.       75 

A  Bridge  of  Glass 50 

Carry's  Confession 75 

Christie's  Faith 12mo  1  75 

Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune .10 

Little  Kate  Kirby.     Illustrations 75 

Mattie:    a  Stray 75 

No  Man's  Friend 75 

Poor  Humanity : 50 

Second-Cousin  Sarah.     Illustrations 

Stern  Necessity 50 

True  to  Herself 50 

A  Girl's  Romance, and  Other  Stories....       50 

ROMANCE  and  its  Hero,  The 12mo  1  25 

ROWCROFT'S  The  Bush  Ranger....; 50 

SACRISTAN'S  Household,  The.  Illustrated.       75 

SAFELY  Married £0 

SALA'S  Quite  Alone 

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Bound  to  the  Wheel 

Hirell 50 

Martin  Pole 50 

SEDGWICK'S(Miss)IIopcLeslie.2vols.l2mo  3  00 

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Live  and  Let  Live 18mo,  Cloth       75 

Married  or  Single? 2  vols.  12mo  3  00 

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Poor  Rich  Man  and  Rich  Poor  Man 

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Stories  for  Young  Persons. .  .18mo,  Cloth       75 

Tales  of  Glauber  Spa 12mo  1  50 

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SEDGWICK'S  (Mrs.)  Walter  Thornley.l2mo  1  50 

SELF.... :.,." 75 

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Fairchild  Family 12mo  1  50 

John  Marten 12mo  1  50 

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16  Vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  per  vol.  1  50 
The  Volumes  sold  separately  or  in  sets. 
Vol.  I.  The  History  of  Henry  Mil 
ner,  Parts  I.,  II.,  and  III. 

Vol.  II.  Fairchild  Family  ;  Orphans 
of  Normandy ;  The  Latter  Days,  &c. 

Vol.  III.  Little  Henry  and  his  Bear 
er  ;  Lucy  and  her  Dhaye ;  Memoirs 
of  Sergeant  Dale,  his  Daughter,  and 
the  Orphan  Mary  ;  Susan  Gray ;  Lucy 
Clare;  Theophilus  and  Sophia;  Abdal- 
lah,  the  Merchant  of  Bagdad. 

Vol.  IV.  The  Indian  Pilgrim  ;  The 
Broken  Hyacinth ;  the  Babes  in  the 
Wood  of  the  New  World;  Catherine 
Seward ;  The  Little  Beggars,  &c. 

Vol.  V.  The  Infant's  Progrefs ;  The 
Flowers  of  the  Forest;  Ermina,  &c. 

Vol.  VI.  The  Governess;  The  Lit 
tle  Momierc  ;  The  Stranger  at  Home  ; 
Pere  la  Chnise  ;  English  Mary ;  My 
Uncle  Timothy. 

Vol. VII. The  Nun ;  Intimate  Friends ; 
.My  Aunt  Kate;  Emelinc  ;  Obedience; 
The  Gipsy  Babes;  The  Basket-makei  ; 
The  Butterfly,  &c. 

Vol.  VIII.  Victoria;  Arzoomund  ; 
The  Birth-Day  Present ;  The  Errand 
Boy;  The  Orphan  Boy;  The  Two  Sis 
ters;  Julian  Pcrcival ;  Edward  Mans 
field;  The  Infirmary ;  The  Young  For 
ester;  Bitter  Sweet ;  Common  Errors, 
&c. 

Vol.  IX.,  X.,  XT.,  and  XII.  The 
Lady  of  the  Manor. 

Vol.  XIII.  The  Mail-Coach  ;  My 
Three  Uncles;  The  Old  Lady's  Com 
plaint  ;  The  Shepherd's  Fountain ; 
The  Hours  of  Infancy;  Economy; 
Old  Things  and  New  Things;  The 
S^iss  Cottage;  The  Infant's  Grave  ; 
The  Father's  Eye  ;  Dudley  Castle  ; 
The  Blessed  Family  ;  Caroline  Mor- 
daunt,  &c. 

Vol.  XIV.  The  Monk  of  Clinics ; 
The  Rosary,  or  Rosee  of  Montrcux ; 
The  Roman  Baths ;  Saint  Hospice  ; 
The  Violet  Leaf;  The  Convent  of  St. 
Clair. 

Vol.  XV.  The  History  of  Henry 
Milner,  Part  IV. ;  Sabbaths  on  the 
Continent ;  The  Idler. 

Vol.  XVI.  John  Marten. 
SINCLAIR'S  (Miss)  Sir  Edward  Graham...  1  00 

SMITH'S  (Horace)  Adam  Brown 50 

Arthur  Arundel 50 

Love  and  Mesmerism 75 

SMOLLETT'S  Humphrey  Clinker 12mo  1  50 

SPINDLER'S  The  Jew." 75 

STANDISII  the  Puritan 12mo  1  50 

STEELE'S  So  Runs  the  World  Away 50 

STONE  EDGE....  25 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


SUE'S    Arthur. 


The  Virginians. 
The  Newcomes. 


Commander  of  Malta 50 

De  Rohan 50 

TABOR'S  (Eliza)  Hope  Meredith...!....'.'.'...'       50 

Eglantine [[       50 

Jeanie's  Quiet  Life 50 

Meta's  Faith 50 

St.  Olave's 75 

The  Blue  Ribbon 50 

TALBOT'S  Through  Fire  and  Water.    Ill's.       25 

TALES  from  the  German 50 

TEFFT'S  The  Shoulder  Knot 12mo  1  50 

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THACKERAY'S  (Miss)  Complete  Works....  1  25 
Illustrations.     Cloth  1  75 

Old  Kensington.     Illustrations 1  00 

Village  on  the  Clift'. 25 

Bluebeard's  Ke3*s 75 

Miss  Angel.     Illustrations 75 

THACKERAY'S  (W.  M.)  Novels. 

Vanity  Fair.    Illustrations 50 

Cloth  1  00 
Library  Edition,  3  vols  ,  Crown  8vo  7  50 

Pendennis.      Illustrations 75 

12mo  1  25 
2  vols.  8vo  Cloth  2  00 

Illustrations •    75 

Cloth  1  25 

Illustrations 75 

Cloth  1  25 
The  Adventures  of  Philip.  Illustrations.       50 

Cloth 
Henry  Esmond  and  Lovel  the  Widower. 

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Denis  Duval.     Illustrations 5C 

Great  Hoggartv  Diamond 25 

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A  Passion  in  Tatters jfc 

Denis  Donne 50 

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"  'Pie  Cometh  Not,'  She  Said" 50 

Maud  Mohan 25 

On  Guard 50 

Only  Herself 50 

Played  Out 75 

Playing  for  High  Stakes.     Illustrations       25 

The  Dower  House 50 

Theo  Leigh 50 

The  Two  Widows 50 

Walter  Goring.. 75 

(Miss  Martha  M.)  Life's  Lesson. ...12mo  1  50 

THOMPSON'S  (Mrs.)  Lady  of  Milan. 75 

TIECK'S  The  Elves 50 

TOM  Brown's  School  Days.    By  An  Old  Boy. 

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TOM  Brown  at  Oxford.     Illustrations 75 

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Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson 50 

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Cloth  2  00 

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Cloth  1  00 

Doctor  Thome 12mo  1  50 

Popular  Edition       75 
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Cloth  1  25 
Lady  Anna 59 

Last  Chronicle  of  Barset ''.  j  50 

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Cloth  1  75 
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Cloth  1  75 
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Cloth  1  75 
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Rachel  Ray 50 

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Cloth  1  75 
Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblcthwaite. 

Engravings 50 

The  Small  House  at  Allington.    Ill's....  1  60 

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The  Three  Clerks 12mo  1  50 

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In  one  volume 75 

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Cloth  2  00 

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Cloth  2  00 

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WILLIAMS'S  The  Luttrells 50 

WILLS'S  Notice  to  Quit 60 

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Cloth  2  00 
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WYOMING 50 

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I.nnd  aULnst 50 

Wrecked  in  Port 60 

Dr.  Wahnrrigbt'i  Patient 60 

ZSCHOKKE'S  Veronica 60 


Harper's  Catalogue. 


The  attention  of  gentlemen,  in  town  or  country,  designing  to  form  Libraries 
or  enrich  their  Literary  Collections,  is  respectfully  invited  to  Harper's  Catalogue, 
which  will  be  found  to  comprise  a  large  proportion  of  the  standard  and  most  es 
teemed  works  in  English  and  Classical  Literature — COMPREHENDING  OVER  THREE 
THOUSAND  VOLUMES — which  are  offered,  in  most  instances,  at  less  than  one-half 
the  cost  of  similar  productions  in  England. 

To  Librarians  and  others  connected  with  Colleges,  Schools,  &c.,  who  may 
not  have  access  to  a  trustworthy  guide  in  forming  the  true  estimate  of  literary 
productions,  it  is  believed  this  Catalogue  will  prove  especially  valuable  for  refer 
ence. 

To  prevent  disappointment,  it  is  suggested  that,  whenever  books  can  not  be 
obtained  through  any  bookseller  or  local  agent,  applications  with  remittance 
should  be  addressed  direct  to  Harper  £  Brothers,  which  will  receive  prompt  at 
tention. 


Sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  Ten  Cents. 


Address  HARPER  &   BROTHERS, 

FRANKLIN  SQUARE,  NEW  YORK. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4) 444 


PS          Benedict  - 

1088     St.  Simon's  niecel 


PS 
1088 


